


Scar Tissue (That I Wish You Saw)

by sysrae



Series: Scar Tissue [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Friendship, Getting Together, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Kent Parson deserves nice things, Kent Parson's fucked-up sexual history, Kent has PTSD, Kent learns to use his words, Kent vs Feelings, Las Vegas Aces, M/M, Nightmares, Off-screen Animal Abuse, Outing, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Slurs, Suicidal Ideation, hockey injuries, many OCs - Freeform, various OMC Aces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 12:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10437636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: For the longest time, Kent thought what happened to him before the Q was normal.Or: a study in Kent Parson, past and present.





	1. The Origin of Kit Purrson

**Author's Note:**

> For various reasons I won't go into, my brain is currently overflowing with sad Kent Parson headcanons, and writing them down is a sort of exorcism. That being said, I do want to address something serious in this fic, namely: the propensity of sexual abuse to flourish in contexts where even consensual relationships are prohibited, and how that intersects with teaching kids that queerness is inherently sexual while simultaneously declining to teach them about consent. It's a perfect storm of awfulness, and it contributes to a lot of really fucked up stuff that makes me furious if I think about it, so. Have a fic, I guess.
> 
> Trigger warning for child sexual abuse. Nothing is described graphically, only alluded to, but the emotional impact is clear.

For the longest time, Kent thought what happened to him before the Q was normal.

He’d known since elementary school that being gay was something you had to keep secret, but he also knew there was something inherently grown up about it, even for kids; or at least, that’s what he took away from being told he was “too young to know about that sort of thing” the one time he’d asked his teacher what gay people were like. He’d nodded dutifully at her rebuke, resisting the urge to ask, “But what if I _am_ that sort of thing?”, because it clearly wouldn’t get him anywhere good. Afterwards, though, he’d reached a quiet accord with himself: Kent was competitive, always looking for ways to think of himself as better, to _make_ himself better, and if being gay was something young people couldn’t know about, then _knowing_ he was gay must mean he was somehow older than his age.

So when his next door neighbour singled him out for praise and attention, murmuring that he knew how difficult it was to grow up like that, and what a difference it made to have someone knowledgeable to help and teach you early on – how some things just had to be secret between men like them, and Kent wouldn’t go and tell anyone, would he? – it all made perfect sense. Kent was gay, which had to be secret anyway, and being gay meant he was more grown up than everyone but Gary thought, and he wasn’t old enough yet for checking to be a part of hockey, but he still knew all about how to push off and skate through if something hurt, and it _did_ hurt, sometimes, but you couldn’t say no to a lesson –

The point is, he thought it was normal, and when Jack Zimmerman shyly confessed that Kent was his first everything, he’d blushed and said, “The same for me, too,” because Gary had told him that was what you were meant to say with someone else. Which – did that mean Jack was lying, too? The idea that someone had done to Jack what Gary had done with Kent made his stomach twist; he found himself pretending that he _was_ Jack’s first, that Jack was his, and even though it was so, so good, he ended up shaking afterwards without understanding why. More than once, Kent almost brought it up with Jack, but always changed his mind at the last minute; it would’ve felt like breaking the unwritten rule of pretending they had nothing to discuss besides hockey, like what they were really doing together and whether they’d still be doing it after the draft, and how Kent was drinking way too much and Jack was taking too many pills and neither of them was really fine, no matter how often or firmly they said they were.

Push off, skate through. Kent knew how to do that by then. He thought Jack did, too.

Jack didn’t.

 

*

 

Three days after Kent found Jack convulsing on the bathroom floor, he signed with the Las Vegas Aces. Two days after that, he was gone from the Q forever, assigned to live with one of the Aces veterans until he either bonded enough with one of the other rookies to consider rooming with them or found his feet sufficiently to fly solo. Katzy is solid on the ice and solid off it, quiet in a way that steadies rather than unsettles, and for the first two weeks of their cohabitation, Kent figures that if Katzy hasn’t noticed anything wrong with him, then there mustn’t be anything wrong to notice, nightmares or no nightmares. Jack is alive and far away, and Kent is fine. He _is_.

And then, at the end of week three, Katzy sits him down and says, with characteristic gruffness, “Parser, you’re a dream on the ice, but you scream in your sleep two nights in three, and that can’t be good for you. I hadn’t mentioned it before because, well, what happened with Zimmerman would be enough to mess anyone up a little, and there’s no shame in takin’ time to recover, but. It’s okay to ask for help, you know?”

Kent just stares at him, cheeks red with mortification and unable, for once in his life, to come up with a snappy comeback. Katzy’s face, which mostly looks like moustachioed sandstone, softens a little.

“Oh, kid,” he says. “You didn’t know I could hear you?”

Kent shakes his head; he hadn’t even realised he was making noise at all. “Sorry,” he says. “Fuck. I’ll, uh. I’ll try and figure it out. Look some stuff up, or whatever. Talk to someone.” He has no intention of doing the last, but Katzy doesn’t need to know that; it’s what you’re meant to say.

“Good,” says Katzy, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s – that’s real good, Parser. And if you want to talk to me, you can. I’ve got your back, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” says Kent, because you’re meant to say that, too. “Thanks, Katzy.”

Which is how, three hours later, he finds himself in bed with his laptop, Googling for stupid shit like _stopping nightmares_ and _how to cope friend’s overdose_ until he lands on an article on survivor’s guilt that links to another on PTSD, which leads in turn to a bullet-point list of its common causes in kids and adolescents. The very first entry, also linked, is on childhood sexual abuse, which doesn’t apply at all to Kent freaking out about Jack’s overdose, but he somehow clicks it anyway, pulse spiking oddly as the new page flashes up.

Kent reads, and his throat goes dry.

It’s wrong, is the thing. It _has_ to be wrong, but he can’t quite pull his eyes away, and when another link comes up, he clicks that, too, and the one after that, and the one after that, and by the time he realises he’s hyperventilating, it’s too late to pretend that none of it applies to him. He shoves his computer aside, lurches off the bed and stumbles into the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet, tears in his eyes as his nostrils sting and his whole world rearranges itself. Not only has he failed to find a way to deal with Jack, he’s somehow gone and made things even worse than they already were; or maybe it’s always been this bad, and he’s only now figured it out. The thought leaves him choked with awful laughter, stomach spasming violently as he tries and fails to not throw up again.

At some point, Katzy comes in and crouches beside him, rubbing Kent’s back and murmuring reassurances. It’s soothing, but it also makes a part of Kent want to laugh harder: Katzy has years of practice looking after sickdrunk rookies, but Kent isn’t drunk and he’s not even messed up now for the reason Katzy thinks, and how the fuck is he meant to deal with this?  

“I’m fucked up,” he gasps, “Katzy, I fucked up, I’m so fucked up, I fucking – I should’ve fucking _known_ , I should’ve –”

“It’s not your fault, Parser,” Katzy says, but Kent shakes his head, because Katzy doesn’t know what Kent did, and how could he _not_ have realised? Kent knows what a fucking paedophile is, he just – he thought there was a _difference_ , it’s not like Gary was some random guy who snatched him from a park or whatever, he was _nice_ , he listened to Kent and told him it was normal to feel the way he did, except that it _wasn’t_ normal and _Kent_ isn’t normal and oh, fuck, what if that means he hurt Jack when they were together? What if everything Gary taught him was wrong and Kent hurt Jack and Jack didn’t know any better because _Kent_ didn’t know any better and Kent’s the reason Jack nearly died from an overdose instead of going first in draft, and what if, _what if_ –     

Much later, when he’s calmed down enough to finally drink some water, breathe and reassure a weary-looking Katzy that he just needed to “get some shit out of my system, really, I’m fine for morning skate, I swear you don’t need to call anyone,” Kent crawls back into bed and shakily reclaims his laptop. In a new tab, he Googles _ways to deal with PTSD no meds no psych_ and reads up about breathing techniques and meditation, which, okay, he can try and do that, though it doesn’t really seem like much. Then he finds an article on therapy animals, which turns out to basically mean pets that help you to not freak out, even if they aren’t specially trained, and Kent –

Kent’s always wanted a cat.

He sells the idea to Katzy over breakfast the next morning, carefully keeping his gaze on his scrambled eggs.

“It’s meant to be good for you,” he says. “Being responsible for an animal, you know. Gives you something to focus on outside your head, something to look after. Like having a rookie, but furrier.” He flashes a quick look at Katzy, relieved when he laughs at the joke.

“Sure thing, Parser,” Katzy says. “A cat sounds fine. Just don’t name it after me.”

Kent snorts. “Katzy the cat? Really?”

“Hockey players aren’t exactly known for bein’ original.” He pauses, taking a swallow of coffee. “You wanna get something pedigree, look up breeds?”

“No,” says Kent, relieved that Katzy’s on board with this. “There’s, uh. There’s a shelter nearby, and I figured I’d go there after practice, you know. See what they’ve got in stock.”

“Sure,” says Katzy. “Just gimme a call if you’re actually bringing someone home so I know to close the windows.”

“Sure,” says Kent, and wonders at the sudden lump in his throat.

 

*

 

There’s so many cats at the shelter, Kent honestly feels overwhelmed. The woman on duty, Anna, seems to understand: she gives him a quiet place to sit and a single kitten to focus on, a splotched black-and-white from a mongrel litter who climbs determinedly up Kent’s shoulder, needle claws pricking even through his hoodie. The kitten is energetic and wonderful, but so tiny that it freaks Kent out: he wants a cat to comfort him, not one so young that he’s going to worry about fucking up its development or whatever, and he’s on the brink of saying as much when a blocky guy with a beat-up cardboard box in his arms starts kicking the glass front door.

“Little help?” he calls, and Anna moves to let him in, standing aside as the guy heaves a sigh of relief. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” he says, “I just – I wasn’t even sure she’d make it here.”

Anna peeks into the cardboard box and blanches. “Is she yours?”

“Fuck no,” the man says, a growl in his voice. “She’s a stray. I’ve seen her around the bar before, but never got close enough for a grab before now. Some asshole was fucking hurting her, and I called the cops on him for that, but – well.” He grimaces at the box. “I wasn’t quick enough.”

Kent stands without quite meaning to. Dislodging the kitten from its shoulder-perch, he sets it down with its littermates and wanders over. “Can I –?” he starts, but the sentence dies when he sees what Anna and Bar Guy are seeing, cold fury choking him silent.

The cat is maybe eight months old, long and lanky enough to be visibly outgrowing kittenhood while still not yet adult. Her long fur is matted in awful hard clumps, dirt-grey and blood-streaked; there’s a thin cut running along her side, and her left hind leg is broken so badly it makes Kent want to be sick. Her notched ears are laid back and she’s panting in pain, but when Kent makes a noise of shock, she opens her eyes to look at him, hissing weakly.

Her eyes are pale blue, clear and beautiful. They remind him a little of Jack’s.

Kent swallows hard and makes himself look at Anna. “Can you save her?”

Anna winces. “We can certainly try, but she’s going to need surgery, which isn’t cheap, and right now, the shelter – well. We do what we can, but we run on donations, and a case like this –”

“I have money,” Kent blurts, cutting her off. “I’ll pay for whatever she needs, I’ll donate to the shelter, just – Jesus, can you just help her? Please?”

“The surgery might cost thousands, Kent,” says Anna, gently. “Your parents –”

“I’m eighteen,” Kent snaps. “The money’s mine, and I’m – I have a _lot_ of it, okay? _Please_.”

“Shit,” says Bar Guy, blinking at Kent in sudden shock. “You’re Kent Parson. The new Aces rookie, right?”

It’s the first time Kent’s been recognised since he joined the NHL, and something about the absurdity of it happening here, of all places, makes him laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, slightly manic. “That’s me.”

Bar Guy looks pointedly at Anna. “Trust me, he’s good for it.”

“I’ll call the vet,” says Anna.

 

*

 

In the end, Kent pays three grand out of pocket for the cat’s surgery – her leg is so badly broken that the vet decides to amputate, never mind the costs of getting her sewn up, desexed, vaccinated and microchipped – and donates another ten grand to the shelter out of sheer gratitude. He takes his new cat home two days later, by which time she has three legs, a mostly shaved coat, a scarred flank, more cat paraphernalia than is strictly necessary and a prickly attitude, hissing displeasure as Kent lets her out of the brand new, sky-blue carrier and into Katzy’s house.

“You sure about this?” asks Katzy, raising a brow as his newest housemate scuttles under the couch.

“Yeah,” says Kent, grinning stupidly. “I really am.”

“You got a name picked out?”

Kent tells him. Katzy laughs.

“In my defence,” says Kent, “you only said not to name her after _you_.”   

The Aces chirp Kent mercilessly for having a three-legged cat called Kit Purrson, which is what he was banking on: they’re so hung up on the funny name and what it ostensibly says about Kent’s ego that none of them really question him getting a cat in the first place. He knows that Katzy is keeping a sharp eye on his moods, so Kent goes out of his way to try and socialise with the other rookies, even at times when he’d rather just go home. But Kit, it turns out, is the perfect excuse to bail early when he hits his limit: no matter how often he says “my cats are missing me” – meaning Kit _and_ Katzy, because that particular pun hardly went unnoticed – it always elicits a favourable ratio of laughter to grumbling from his teammates, which lets him get away from them largely unchallenged. At home, he tries to meditate, do breathing exercises like the internet said, but he’s never been good at clearing his mind with anything other than alcohol, and in the end, it’s easier to medicate quietly: a shot of straight vodka just before bed from the bottle Katzy hopefully doesn’t know about. Or more than one shot, sometimes. Just to take the edge off.

The first time Kent wakes up with Kit on his chest, he doesn’t know what’s happening. He gasps into consciousness at 3am, one arm flailing for the bedside light, and finds himself staring into pale blue eyes.

“Kit?” Kent whispers. He’s had her barely a week, and so far he can count on one hand the number of times she’s voluntarily sought out physical contact. He’s been giving her space the way Anna suggested, letting her sniff his fingers and rub her face on his things, lying down flat where she can see him, making himself look small. Most of her fur was shaved off during surgery – aside from all the clumps, they needed to check her for injuries – but it’s growing back soft and white. She’s still so thin in makes his heart hurt, her weight on his chest almost negligible, but when she starts to purr, he feels the gentle vibration in his bones.

Tentatively, Kent lifts a hand and pets between her ears. Kit twists her head and licks the side of his hand with her pink, rough tongue. She purrs and purrs, and Kent cries quietly without knowing why, and when he finally falls asleep again, he doesn’t dream.

A week later, Katzy watches Kit wolf into her tin of gourmet wet food and says, without quite looking at Kent, “You seem to be sleepin’ better.”

“Yeah,” says Kent, and manages a shaky laugh. “I guess I am.”    


	2. A Rookie's Guide to Mistakes

Kent and Jack don’t talk while Jack’s in rehab: no visits, no calls, no texts. Kent doesn’t know if Jack blames him for what happened, if he’s jealous of Kent going first in draft, if he’s just trying to get his shit together. It ought to help that Kent wouldn’t know what to say to Jack even if he did call, but somehow that only makes it worse. Thanks to Kit, he doesn’t scream in his sleep any more, but he still has plenty of nightmares, and the most fucked-up ones are always a mix of Jack and Gary. Three nights running, Kent dreams that Jack holds a press conference in rehab to announce that Kent raped him, and Kent’s there in the crowd when it happens. Everyone turns to stare at him and he tries to run, but Gary’s there in his police uniform, and as he puts the cuffs on Kent he leans down and murmurs, “I taught you better than this.” Kent wakes up crying every time, and Kit tries her best to comfort him, licking the salt off his cheeks and butting her head against his chin, but it’s getting too much to handle, and he doesn’t know what to do. He sure as fuck can’t ask Katzy for help, let alone the team psychologist, but when the other rookies ask him out for drinks the next day after practice, he figures that if he’s properly drunk, he at least might black out enough to keep from dreaming.

Danno is Kent’s age, signed up from the NCAA, but Mads has spent the last two years in the AHL, which means he’s legally old enough to drink. They don’t get carded going into the club, but Mads buys their opening round for the sake of respectability.

“Fucking Christ, Parser,” says Mads, watching as Kent puts away his third double rum and coke in thirty minutes. “You got a liver of steel or what?”

“Or what,” says Kent, draining his glass.

Danno snorts. “Fuckin’ weirdo. I’m guessing you want another one?”

“Don’t you?” Kent shoots back, and for an answer Danno laughs and makes his way to the bar. He doesn’t get carded, but that’s no shock – he’s 6’3 and built for defence, broad-shouldered and thick-thighed in a way that makes Kent suddenly, achingly aware of the fact that he hasn’t had sex since the Q. As if he can read Kent’s mind – or part of it, anyway – Mads grins wolfishly and nods towards a nearby table, where a group of pretty girls is casting glances in their direction.

“Reckon we’re in with a chance, there.”

“Go for it,” Kent drawls, because at this point he’s got hetero deflection down to a fucking artform. “You want me to play wingman?”

“Like I need the help,” says Mads, not immodestly. He’s slightly taller than Danno, with dark hair and bright brown eyes. “What, you’re not gonna try your luck?”

“What’s Parser not doing?” Danno asks, returning with their drinks.

“Getting laid, apparently.”

“Fuck you,” says Kent, snagging his rum. “I’ll get laid if I wanna get laid. It’s Danno I’m worried about.”

“Me?”

“Danno, be fair. You thought Javvy’s wife was flirting with you when she asked if you wanted seconds at dinner – you can’t be trusted to know what the fuck’s going on.”

Mads cackles at that, while Danno goes bright red. It’s a week-old chirp at this point, but still a potent one, not least because Javvy himself thinks it’s fucking hilarious. Mads points out the girls again, which doesn’t do anything to diminish Danno’s flush; instead, he grabs his beer, flips Kent off and heads to their table, leaving Mads to roll his eyes at Kent.

“I’m gonna go make sure he doesn’t embarrass himself,” says Mads, rising in turn.

“Get proof if he does,” says Kent. Mads laughs, claps Kent on the shoulder and follows Danno, injecting a little swagger into his walk. Kent watches them both for long enough to assure himself of their preoccupation, then turns back to stare at his drink. He feels… warm. The background music is loud without being obnoxious, and Kent is sufficiently buzzed from his first three drinks that he has no problem nursing the fourth.

The next time he looks around, Mads has his arms around two different girls and Danno is kissing a third. Kent catches Mads’s eye, raises his now-empty glass in salute, and saunters across to the bar. Loose-limbed, he settles onto a vacant stool and picks up the cocktail menu, because if they’re going to serve him booze, he might as well get something fancy. He’s just about to make his choice when Mads comes over, grinning happily.

“We’re gonna get out of here,” he says, tipping his head to indicate Danno and the girls. “You wanna come with? There’s enough to go ‘round.”

“Nah, I’m good,” says Kent. “You guys have fun.”

Mads gives him an exaggerated wink. “Will do!”

Kent huffs softly and turns back to the menu, watching his teammates vanish from the corner of his eye. When the bartender next comes by, Kent orders a frozen margarita on the basis that it looks tasty and there’s nobody left to chirp him for it, and wonders vaguely if it’s weird to be drinking alone at a club bar at 10pm on a Thursday. The margarita is pretty good and decidedly alcoholic, but there’s a nagging itch beneath Kent’s skin that says he’s still far too stuck in his head. He needs to do something, dance or talk or run or fuck –

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Go ahead,” says Kent, unable to keep from giving the guy a once-over. He’s maybe thirty, not hockey-fit but fit enough, with short brown hair and sharp blue eyes behind thin, round glasses. His jaw is pleasantly stubbled, and he’s not quite dressed for clubbing, but then, Kent isn’t either.

“Thanks,” says the guy, and tilts his drink in acknowledgement. “I’m Ethan.”

“I’m Mike,” says Kent, because he knows he’s being hit on and no way is he dumb enough to give his own name if he doesn’t have to. “You alone tonight?”

“Apparently,” says Ethan.

“You don’t have to be,” says Kent. Casual, like his heart’s not beating out of his chest.

It’s bold enough to have the desired effect. Ethan smirks at him, looks him over again, and Kent knows shit about protracted adult flirting because he’s never needed to, but he sure as hell knows how to make a guy follow him somewhere private. He downs his drink in a single swallow, lifts his chin in clear invitation and saunters off towards the bathroom, knowing he’s being followed without ever looking back.

Through the door, the music is muted, and Kent is alone just long enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror – _young_ , he thinks suddenly, startled by it, _I look fucking_ young – and then Ethan’s there, grinning sharkishly as he crowds Kent up against the wall and kisses him.

Even though he was expecting it, the actual feel of another mouth on his is shocking enough that Kent gasps, hands coming up to grip Ethan’s shirt like he’s not sure whether to push him away or pull him closer. He always took the lead with Jack, which was terrifying in a different way, and with Gary –

He shoves the thought down viciously and kisses back. _I want this_ , he tells himself, _I’m choosing this, I’m choosing_ him, _and it’s nothing to do with anyone but me_. Kent tells himself this as Ethan’s hands slide beneath his shirt, stroking the skin; he tells himself this as Ethan manoeuvres them into an empty stall and guides Kent to his knees; he tells himself this when Ethan pushes into his mouth, one hand fastened in Kent’s hair; he tells himself this when he realises, far too late, that he didn’t want it to go this far and doesn’t know how to make it stop; he tries to tell himself this when he swallows anyway, eyes wide as he stares up at Ethan and wonders what happens now.

“Christ, your mouth,” Ethan murmurs appreciatively, stroking a thumb across Kent’s cheek. Kent doesn’t flinch, but only because he’s had the habit trained out of him. “Do you even know what you look like?”

“I’ve got some idea,” says Kent. He means for it to be cocky, but it comes out flat, and Ethan gives him a pointed look.

“Don’t even pretend you didn’t enjoy that,” he says, flicking his gaze meaningfully to the bulge in Kent’s jeans. Kent flushes and stands up, legs shaking only slightly.

“Whatever,” Kent says, unlocking the door. “I’m going.”

“But not, apparently, coming,” Ethan says to his back. Kent doesn’t turn, and the smug quip follows him out of the bathroom, through the club and into the taxi that takes him home. Katzy’s already asleep, thank fuck, but Kit’s curled up at the foot of his bed and wide awake when Kent gets in, the skinny nobs of her spine still visible through her patching fur. Kent goes very still under her scrutiny, fighting the sudden, awful sense that he doesn’t deserve to look at her. He shuts the bedroom door and grabs his bottle of vodka from the bedside table, hands shaking only slightly as he foregoes his usual single shot in favour of pouring as much of it down his throat as he can manage without gagging. He wants to disinfect himself, get Ethan’s taste out of his mouth, and when he finally forces himself to put the (significantly emptier) bottle back, he’s gasping for breath, his back to the edge of the mattress as his knees draw up to his chin.

Something soft butts against his cheek. Kit stands on the counterpane, rubbing her cheek against his cheek, and when Kent lets one leg fall flat, she leaps down daintily into his lap and starts purring, turning herself in small, determined circles in pursuit of the comfiest sleeping angle.

Kent stares at Kit for a long, soft moment. Then, careful not to disturb her efforts, he grubs around in his pocket for his phone, pulls it out and sends a single text message to Jack.

_I miss you, Zimms._

There’s no reply, but Kent didn’t think there would be. He puts the phone on the charger and lets himself loll in position, abruptly too drained or just too drunk to bother moving again.

Kent falls asleep sitting upright with his head tipped back on the mattress and his three-legged cat in his lap. They’re both still like that when Katzy comes in to wake him the next morning. Katzy takes a photo of them together and posts it to the group chat, but doesn’t say anything; Kent only finds out when the whole team starts chirping him for it.

It’s… not a bad shot, actually. Kent’s face looks good in profile, he hasn’t got any gross stains on his clothes, and Kit looks suitably regal where she’s curled up in his lap. But knowing why he was sleeping like that in the first place makes it feel wrong, somehow, that other people can see it. He knows Katzy didn’t mean anything bad by sharing it – Mads and Danno have both been subjected to the same treatment when hungover multiple times already; if anything, Katzy’s shown restraint in waiting this long to take an incriminating picture, especially with all the crap Kent’s put him through – but for whatever reason, Kent can’t set it aside. Which is, objectively, fucking stupid: it’s not like he doesn’t have a literal lifetime of shrugging off chirps and ugly locker-room bullshit, but he just can’t do it this time, and that makes it so much worse. It’s the first visible chink in his armour, the first time he hasn’t been able to fool his team about the fact that he gives a shit, and Mads and Danno seize on it like blood in the fucking water.

“Guess you did end up going home with a girl,” Danno sniggers, slapping Kent on the shoulder as they gear up for practice. “A little out of your league though, isn’t she?”

“Come on, Danno,” says Mads. “Nobody’s out of your league when you pay three grand for the privilege.”     

“Don’t,” says Kent, quietly. He’s not looking at either of them, and he doesn’t fucking know why this is getting to him so badly, but he really can’t afford to lose his shit about it in front of everyone. He grips his skate, fingers digging into the leather, and feels a satisfyingly sharp, distracting pinch where the edge of the blade hits his thigh.

But Danno’s too busy laughing with Mads to hear him. “I can’t fucking believe you paid three grand for that fucking cat, bro. I mean, I get wanting to drop that kind of money on pussy, but I think you’ve got some wires crossed.”

“Knock it off, Danno,” the captain, Bracky, says, but not sternly enough to stop Mads from leaning over Kent and saying, in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, “At least you got a _girl_ cat, Parser. That was on purpose, right? You didn’t mean to name her Ja–”

“ _Mads_!” Bracky snaps. “Fucking leave it, will you? WAGs, kids and pets are over the line, you _know_ that.”

“Sorry, cap,” Mads mutters. And then, in a breathless, baffled tone of voice, “Oh, _shit_. Parser? Parse, fuck, oh fuck, you’ve gotta – Jesus, your leg, man, your fucking _leg_ –”

There’s a sudden explosive flurry at Kent’s side, voices and motion as Mads steps back and Bracky moves in, his big hands weirdly gentle where he puts them over Kent’s and makes him lift the skate from his thigh. Kent blinks, staring dully at the blood on his leg as Bracky hisses shock. It’s only then that he feels it, a stinging ache where he’s pushed the skate down hard enough to hurt himself, because it was that or attack his own teammates.

“Sorry,” Kent says, distantly aware that his voice isn’t coming out right. “Sorry, cap.” And then, because it’s what you’re meant to say, “It was an accident.”

Bracky, crouched down to look at Kent’s leg, stares up at him flatly. “An accident.”

Kent swallows. “Yeah.”

He looks at his leg again, stomach churning slightly. The cut is about two inches long, deeper at one end than the other, but the amount of blood makes it look worse. Kent’s skates are sharp, but not sharp enough to pretend he could’ve done it without pressing down at all, and Bracky knows that, because Bracky’s not an idiot.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Bracky says, and Kent nods compliance, silent as Katzy brings the team doctor over to assess the damage, silent as Bracky yells at them to gear the fuck up and get out on the ice. The doctor is swift and efficient, wiping away the blood for long enough to murmur that it probably won’t need stitches, but that skin glue might be a good idea. Kent keeps nodding and drifts while the doctor does her thing, and when she finally taps him on the shoulder and says he’s good to go, he gets the impression that she’s tried and failed to get his attention several times already.  

And then Kent gets ready, and goes on the ice, and trains like he was hand-built by God to play hockey.

Afterwards, in the locker room, no one says anything to him. Katzy squeezes his shoulder in passing and Danno shoots him a look like he’s not sure whether he ought to be cracking a joke or apologising, but that’s as far as it goes. It’s only when Kent’s dressed again and the rest of the team have already gone that Bracky takes him aside and says, in a low voice, “Is this going to be a problem?”

“No, cap.”

“Mads and Danno went too far, but chirping’s part of the sport.”

“Yeah, cap.”

“Parser. Look at me.” Kent looks, and doesn’t know what to do with the concern on Bracky’s face. “All that speculation about you and Zimmerman? The people who matter here, we know it’s bullshit. Maybe you’ll get chirped a bit in the future, but bringing it up while he’s still in rehab – well. I’ll be talking to Mads about that separately.”

Kent makes his straightest (in both senses) face. “Thanks, cap.”

Bracky sighs. “Yes cap, no cap, three bags full cap – that about the size of it?”

Kent risks a slight grin. “Sure thing, cap.”

Bracky rubs his face and laughs. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour.” And then, in his captain’s voice, “You’re a hell of a player, Parser, but you could stand to be more social. Honestly, I think Danno and Mads just want to see you take a few knocks, same as they do. Lighten up a little, you know?”

“I’ll work on it,” Kent says.

And he does. Push off, skate through. It’s what he’s always done.

 

*

 

The season starts, and Kent goes for drinks with Danno and Mads, with Bracky, Javvy and Katzy and the other veteran Aces. He has dinner at Bracky’s house and charms the shit out of Bracky’s wife, picks up a smattering of mostly profane Russian from Yaks and Petty, plays wingman for Swoops and gives piggyback rides to Fender’s little girl. Kit’s fur grows back, a luxurious, long white coat, and Kent moves out of Katzy’s place and into a condo with an enormous cat tree. The whole team comes to his housewarming, and Kit spends most of the evening atop her tallest plinth, staring haughtily down at all the noisy bipeds in her demesne. When they play away and Kent can’t rely on Kit to keep him calm at night, he buys over the counter sleeping pills and trusts in Katzy’s enduring discretion as a roommate in the event that they don’t work. Mostly, they do, and the rest of the time, Katzy knows not to say anything.

On the rare occasions when Kent lets himself think about exactly how fucked up he is, he thanks the small god of endorphins that, as a professional athlete, he has every excuse to use his body hard enough, often enough that it’s easy to shut his brain up the rest of the time. He plays hockey like he’ll lie down and die if he doesn’t, and that’s close enough to the truth some days that the truer it feels, the harder he works and the bigger he smiles for photos. And sometimes, when he’s some combination of horny and brave and self-hating and raw, he finds someone to fuck. It’s… complicated, and not always good, but Kent figures that at least when it’s bad, it’s still a thing he chose for himself, the risk anticipated and inherent in the action. He has rules about not bringing people home, about not sleeping over or seeing the same guy more than twice, and if he ever starts feeling like that’s not enough, well, that’s what Kit’s for. Everyone thinks her Instagram is a shrine to Kent’s ego, and it kind of is, but it’s also a way of keeping track of all the things in his life that don’t actively suck.

Kent thinks about Jack more often than he’d like, which is another way of saying that he thinks about him at all. He hates that he thinks about Jack when he’s fucking someone else, hates that he’s still hung up on someone who doesn’t want to talk to him and who Kent wouldn’t know how to talk to even if he did. It’s not until he’s angrily showering after a sexual encounter more bad than satisfactory that it occurs to him, in a sudden knife-twist of clarity, that his failure to find good sex in Vegas makes perfect sense if he’s somehow in love with Jack Zimmerman. It’s not that Kent is picking terrible partners, or perhaps doesn’t even know what a good partner is or how to ask them for what he wants; it’s just that he’s in love with Jack, and anyone who _isn’t_ Jack is therefore inherently subpar.

(It’s not about Gary. It can’t be about Gary, because if it was, he’d never have managed Jack.) 

Which means that Kent has a goal to reach, and that goal is Jack Zimmerman playing with him again. Which means that Kent, for once in his life, can be the mature adult and wait for Zimms to contact _him_ – he clearly needs space to get his shit together, and there’s no point getting his hopes up until Jack joins the NHL. The idea that Jack might contact Kent before then never crosses his mind; if Jack was going to do a thing like that, Kent figures, he’d have gone and done it already. Which is why, when Bracky retires and Kent is given the C, he finds himself utterly blindsided by Jack’s congratulatory call.

“Hey, Kenny,” says Jack, his voice made tinny by distance.

“Hey, Zimms,” says Kent. “Uh. I wasn’t – how are you, uh –”

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” Jack says in a rush. “On getting the C. You really deserve it.”

“Oh,” says Kent. “Uh. Thanks.”

There’s an awkward pause, broken seconds later when Jack says, “I’m, uh. I’m also calling to say that I’m going to university. To Samwell. To play, I mean, they’re a Division 1 school, but I’ll study there, too, and I wanted –”

“I miss you,” Kent blurts out.

Silence.

Kent swallows, loud enough to be audible. On the other end of the phone, Jack sighs.

“Kenny,” he says, softly. “I don’t – I’m not – you know we can’t, we never could –”

“No, I know,” says Kent, too fast. “I just – I miss you on my line.” _And now I know you’ll be gone for four more years._ “I miss my _friend_ , Zimms.” And he’s startled to realise it’s true.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call before. I just… it’s been hard, you know?”

“Yeah,” says Kent. “I know. It’s okay.”   

“It’s not,” says Jack, a twist of smile in the words. “But thanks.”

“Maybe I’ll come visit you at school sometime, huh? Once you’re all settled in. You can show me the sights.”

“Sure,” says Jack, after a pause. “That’d be – yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” says Kent, stupidly. “All right, then. I guess I’ll, uh. Talk to you later, or whatever.”

“See you, Kenny.”

“Bye, Zimms.”

Jack hangs up, and Kent sits on the edge of his bed for a good ten minutes, staring at his phone. Eventually, Kit wanders in and rubs up against his legs. Kent blinks at her and puts the phone down, laughing softly to himself.

“Four years, Kit. Four years, and then he’s in the NHL.” And then, more softly, “I can wait four years.”

Kent visits Jack twice at Samwell. The first visit, not long after Kent wins his very own Stanley Cup, is awkward in some ways, positive in others. Jack is tense a lot of the time, but Kent puts that down to academic pressure. Jack’s always been prone to stressing about his environment; why should college be any different?

The second visit, though, Kent fucks it all up. He fucks up _bad_.

It’s just, he’s spent the past four years waiting for Jack, and even though they’ve never really discussed it beyond that first post-rehab call, when he said he missed having Jack on his line, he’d somehow tricked himself into thinking that Jack was on board with it, too. That, at some point prior to his graduation, Jack would call Kent to talk about joining the Aces, or would at least put out feelers to the team’s GM, and then Kent would know what to do. But Jack doesn’t call, and Kent figures, okay, perhaps Jack thinks that the mountain should come to Mohammed. So Kent rents a car – a stupidly pricey, flashy car, because Kent feels weirdly like shit right now and pretty things cheer him up – and drives to the Haus to make his pitch in person.

If anyone asked him to, Kent would put his hand on the Stanley Cup and swear that he didn’t drive down with a plan to get Jack into bed. But he’s waited so long, so _fucking_ long, and Jack is right there, and Kent is overcome with the sudden, terrible fear that he doesn’t actually know how to have good sex with anyone who _isn’t_ Jack, and it throws him off his game. Makes him sharp where he shouldn’t be sharp, and needy where he shouldn’t be needy, and when he presses Jack up against the bedroom door, hands fisted in his shirt, and chokes out, “I _miss_ you,” trying desperately to patch over an argument that’s already gotten away from him, it hurts, it hurts so fucking _much_ when Jack just says “You always say that,” and Kent – 

Kent blows up. Projects onto Jack a fraction of the shit he thinks about himself with a few low blows thrown in for colour and movement. Stalks from the Haus past the boy he’ll later realise is Jack’s _new_ boy, the tiny mirrorverse version of Kent who isn’t broken and knows how to fucking function, _Christ_ –

The point is, Jack isn’t coming to the Aces, and that leaves Kent with nothing to do off the ice that doesn’t eventually lead to beating Jack on it.

Because if Jack doesn’t want to be on Kent’s team, then what else is there to do but prove him wrong?


	3. The Difference a Day Makes

In the leadup to Kent’s first NHL game against Jack, who signed with the Providence Falconers – which is to say, with a team on the _other fucking side of the country_ from Kent, who can take a damn hint – the GM calls him in and asks, in a polite, friendly way, if Kent wouldn’t mind doing an in-depth segment with _Catch_ magazine. It’s a newer publication, comparatively speaking, but a well-respected one, distinguished by a solid mix of sports and lifestyle content with just a dash of (mostly centre-left) politics thrown in. Conveniently in this case, they also have a Las Vegas office.   

“You don’t do a lot of personal press,” the GM says. “Publicity, yes – we’ve got no complaints on that count – but otherwise, you tend to be pretty private. And we respect that, you know we do, but now that Zimmerman’s in the league, it’s fair to assume a lot of people are going to be interested in what you have to say about, well, not necessarily how it feels to have him back –” Kent suppresses a manic, inappropriate burst of laughter, “– but who you are now, as opposed to when you played together.” He hesitates, then adds, “We’ve had other requests, but the one from Catch sounded like the best fit for you.”

“Sure,” says Kent, because the GM seems pretty keen on it, and he’d rather not have to weigh up any alternatives. “So, what – one of those week in the life things?”

“Something like that,” says the GM, looking relieved. “I don’t know if they’re planning to use that exact format, but they’ll send someone to observe your usual routine, talk to you at home, that sort of thing. We’ve got a few days off and a string of home games after the Falconers match, which would be convenient – I’ll set it up for then, shall I?”

“Go ahead,” says Kent, and puts it out of mind. He has, after all, got other things to worry about.

 

*

 

The Aces beat the Falconers 3-2, and it takes Kent all of an hour to come down off the high of winning the game and start to feel like shit. He goes out to celebrate with the team – they all know he wanted to win this one; his absence would be conspicuous – but makes sure to slip away in the confusion when a few guys go home and the rest change venues. He turns his phone off, the better to claim that it died on him if anyone asks later, and makes his way to what he’s come to think of as his bad mood bar. It’s close enough to the sports bars where the Aces drink that he can get there on foot, but divorced enough from sports in clientele and setting that he’s seldom recognised. It’s not a gay bar, but he’s hooked up in the bathrooms more than once; never, admittedly, to any great satisfaction, but that’s half the point of coming here when he’s pissed at himself.

Tonight, Kent makes a beeline for a vacant barstool, flags the bartender and orders himself a top shelf Long Island Iced Tea. It’s a hideous drink, but he doesn’t want to be sober right now, and he necks nearly half of it in a single, long swallow.

Beside him, someone lets out a startled laugh. Kent turns to look, and finds himself face to face with one of the most stupidly beautiful men he’s ever seen in his life. The guy is dressed in a white collared shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, paired with charcoal slacks. He looks like Daveed Diggs by way of Diego Luna, his kinky hair tied neatly back in a tail. He’s wearing glasses, thin silver rectangles that catch the light, and his smile is warm and open.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding at Kent’s drink. “I just – if this is how you celebrate winning, I’d hate to see how you deal with losing.”

Kent’s stomach sinks. He doesn’t want to be recognised; not tonight, and especially not by someone he might otherwise have hit on. He toys with his glass, abruptly sick of his stupid life, and says, without daring to look up, “Can we pretend that you don’t know who I am?”

“Uh,” says the guy, who clearly wasn’t expecting it. “Sorry, I didn’t – that was rude of me, I shouldn’t have assumed –”

“No, no!” Kent says hurriedly. “Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just.” He gestures awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “I’d rather not, uh. Talk about hockey. Tonight. Please, stay.” And then, tripping over his tongue, “What’s your name?”

“Day,” the guy says, and knocks his glass gently against Kent’s. “Nice to meet you, nameless stranger.”

Kent laughs, relieved and gratified. “Nice to meet you, too.” He nods to indicate Day’s nearly empty drink. “Can I buy you another one of whatever you’re drinking?”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” Day says, and within moments, Kent has the bartender pouring him a new rum and coke. They touch glasses again and drink together quietly, the silence somehow more expansive than uncomfortable. This time, it’s Kent who breaks it, the words coming out in a shaky exhale.

“So, do you – do you come here often?”  

Day visible startles, staring incredulously at Kent. “Are you serious?”

_No_ , Kent is what ought to say. He has, after all, been recognised. Instead, he says, “Is it a problem if I am?”

“Not for me,” says Day. He’s watching Kent almost guardedly. “Is it a problem for you?”

“Usually? Yes.”

“You do this often, then?”

Kent shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“That is… not what I’d expected.”

“I rarely am.”

Day inhales sharply. “Look, in the interest of full disclosure –”

“Do you want me?”

Day freezes. “What?”

“It’s a simple question,” Kent says. “Do you want me? Because you can have me, if you do.”

In the silence that follows this statement, it occurs to Kent, somewhat belatedly, that he’s much more drunk than he realised, and that Day is now looking at him with abject shock, his brown skin paling slightly.

“Kent –”

“Another time, then,” says Kent, and swings himself off the barstool, walking away with his stupid drink still unfinished. He moves fast, but Day turns out to be taller than him, his long legs easily making up the distance. Kent gets out of the bar ahead, but Day catches him before he can vanish, his long-fingered grip on Kent’s arm incongruously soft.

“Please, I need to apolog–”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Kent snarls, yanking his arm away. “What good am I to you if you don’t want to fuck me?”

Day flinches, and for a moment, Kent feels utterly sick.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “Just – forget about this, okay?”

And before Day can marshal a response, Kent hurries away down the street,

Day doesn’t follow.

 

*

 

As expected, Kent gets chirped for his vanishing act at morning skate. He’s slightly hungover, but nowhere near as badly as Danno and Hells, the new rookie, who seem to have made a night of it, and if his teammates choose to assume he wandered off in the company of a woman they thought was eyeing him at the first bar – well. He’s not exactly going to tell them otherwise. Practice goes a long way towards clearing his head, but afterwards, as they all file back into the locker room, he can’t escape the nagging sense that he’s forgotten something important. It’s only when the GM sticks his head in the door and calls out, “Parson! The guy from Catch is here,” that he remembers agreeing to do the interview.

“Be right there!” he says, and stifles a groan as he pulls his shirt back on. After that dogpile against the Falcs, he’s bruised and stiff in places he couldn’t feel last night, and practice has left him aching in a way that’s just the wrong side of pleasant.

“Good luck with the vultures,” Javvy says cheerfully, demonstrating the reason why he’s seldom allowed to do press.

“I’ll do my best,” Kent says, and grabs his gear bag, wondering who the fuck he’s going to spend the next week convincing of his functional adulthood.

“In here,” says the GM, opening the door to one of the conference rooms, and Kent has his media-perfect smile in place right up until he recognises the man moving forward to greet him.

“Kent Parson, this is Damian Navarro,” says the GM.

“Hi,” says the goddamn journalist, his own smile clearly painted on. “Most people call me Day.”

 

*

 

Kent doesn’t have a panic attack, but that’s the best thing to be said of his reaction. He stands there, mute and mortified, and doesn’t hear a word the GM says about the organisation’s hopes for the interview or Day’s presumably pithy response; just struggles to keep from dropping his gear and bolting. It takes a lifetime’s mastery of bullshit to finally speak, suggesting that he and Day go grab some food and get the details worked out. The GM heartily approves, gives Kent a nod and Day a professional handshake, and leaves. Kent waits until he’s gone from earshot, then says, in something approximating his normal voice, “Did you drive here?”

“No, I –”

“Good,” says Kent. “You can ride with me.”

He turns on his heel and walks away, heart hammering in his chest. He knows that Day is following, but doesn’t dare turn to look at him, afraid of what might happen if he does. They make it all the way out to the parking lot like that, and it’s only when Day straps into the passenger seat of Kent’s blue Porsche 911 that Kent finds the nerve to say, “I’m driving us to my place. Is that a problem?”

“No,” Day says quickly. “No, that’s fine.”

“Good,” Kent says again. The word, like his chest, feels hollow.

Neither of them speaks the whole drive home, which is the only thing that lets Kent keep it together. His brain is offline, a sea of white noise; it’s a miracle he doesn’t crash the car.

As he pulls in to his spot at the condo, his hands start to shake. He’s never brought anyone home before who doesn’t work for the Aces, and it makes him panic to think what might come of it now. When they reach the door, it takes him two fumbling attempts to get his key in the lock; he gestures Day in ahead of him, forehead pressed briefly to the cool, white wood, and when the latch shuts behind them both, it sounds like an ultimatum.

Hearing them enter, Kit comes running, ignoring Day in favour of rushing Kent. She’s only hungry, he knows that – he always feeds her when he gets back – but her presence is, as always, calming. Kent scoops her up and hugs her to his chest, pathetically relieved when she doesn’t squirm away. He presses his face to her soft fur and breathes in deeply, forcing himself to put her down again. She twines around his legs, _mrr_ ing for food, and knowing that she needs him – knowing that he can’t just curl up into a ball, no matter how much he wants to – lets him move again.

“I have to feed her,” he says. “Sorry. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Sure,” says Day. He’s looking at Kit, not Kent, which makes it somehow easier to pretend he isn’t there, letting the ritual of filling Kit’s bowl and cleaning her water dish settle him into his skin.

By the time he finally turns to Day, he feels enough like himself to say, “Well. This is awkward.”

Day winces. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be at the bar last night. I’d been going to introduce myself up front, but you didn’t want to talk about hockey, and afterwards – I tried, I did try to tell you, but you’d already, uh –”

“Propositioned you?”

“Yeah.” Day exhales, hard. His eyes are hazel, unbearably soft. He’s not wearing glasses today, Kent notes. He must have contacts in. “For the record, I’m, uh. I’m gay.”

Kent smiles without humour, a pang in his chest. “That makes two of us, then.”

“Shit,” Day breathes. “Sorry, I just – I assumed you were bi or pan, you always take women to events –”

“Escorts,” Kent says. “Going alone is conspicuous.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re not – to your team, I mean, not generally – you’re not out?”

“Let me put it this way,” says Kent. “In the whole wide world, there’s exactly one person I haven’t fucked who knows I’m gay, and that’s you.” He forces himself to meet Day’s gaze. “For now, at least.”

Day opens his mouth. Shuts it again. It’s a very nice mouth, the shape of it only enhanced by his morning stubble. “You’re planning to come out publicly, then?”

“Not for preference, no.”

“Then what –” He breaks off, realisation dawning. “Oh, shit. No, Kent, I’m not – I’m not going to _out_ you, Jesus. I haven’t told anyone about last night, and I’m not planning to, either.”

Kent laughs harshly. “What, so you’ll keep quiet out of the goodness of your heart?”

Day looks at him oddly. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Look,” says Kent, stepping closer. “I’m not stupid, I don’t want to play games, and I don’t want this hanging over me. Just tell me what you want.”

“What I want?”

“What are you, a parrot? You know what I’m saying! Tell me what you want in exchange for keeping quiet, and I’ll do it.”

“Kent,” says Day, softly. “I promise, I don’t want anything. Just the interview we agreed on, which will say nothing about your sexual orientation.”

“That’s not –” Kent swallows, a horrible lump in his throat. “What are you, new? That’s not how this _works_ , Day. What do you _want_?”

Day makes a frustrated noise. “What I _want_ is to live in a world where it wouldn’t make sense to blackmail someone for being queer, because nobody would _care_. Failing that, I want an interview, and I want you to believe me when I say I’m not going to out you for kicks, or hold off on outing you just to get some money or whatever. I’ve _been_ outed, Kent, and it’s fucking awful. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and I’m sure as hell not going to do it to you now.”  

Kent goes very still. He looks at Day, really _looks_ at him, and says, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t know how to give you any of that.”

“Kent –”

“It’s not that I don’t – I want to trust you, I do, but I don’t know _how_ , and I don’t think I can give you a printable interview if you know how much I’m lying about my life.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Day says. “I already said, I’m not going to print anything to do with your sexuality –”

“You don’t _get it_!” Kent shouts, cutting him off. “I am a spectacularly fucked up human being, okay, and I’m fucked up because I like men, which is a goddamn awful cliché but still fucking true in my case, and other than hockey, that’s literally all there is to me. If last night hadn’t happened, I’d have taken you to lunch and fed you some bullshit about how grateful I am to be rags to riches, I would’ve shown you my fucking wardrobe and talked about the weather here, how I grew up with snow and isn’t this different, and if you’d asked the right questions, maybe you would’ve gotten a humanising paragraph or two about how much I love my cat despite my being a cocky, superficial jackass, and _I can’t do that now_ , because you already know how messed up I am.” He looks away, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. “I remember exactly what I said to you, last night. What I offered you. And I don’t – if you don’t want that, and you don’t want hockey, then I don’t have anything else to give. I never have.”

Utter silence. Kent can’t bring himself to look up from the floor.

“No offence,” Day says, softly, “but that’s bullshit. And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but – just tell me if I need to back off, okay?”

“Back off?” Kent asks, confused. “What –?”

Day steps in and hugs him.

It’s gentle at first, Day holding himself lightly, his hands the barest pressure on Kent’s back. Kent swallows hard, pulse rabbiting, but doesn’t step away. For a moment, he just stands there, unsure of what it means – and then, tentatively, he leans into it, his arms coming up to fit around Day in turn.

Day’s hold tightens incrementally even as his head pulls back. “Is this all right?”

“Shut up,” Kent rasps, and presses his face into Day’s shoulder, shaking uncontrollably. His hands fist in Day’s shirt, and he’s going to hate himself for this later, but he can’t remember the last time anyone held him like this, and he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to let go.

At that, Day wraps him close as easily if Kent isn’t a stranger, let alone a hot mess. Kent tries to stop shaking and sobs instead, just once. Day makes a soothing noise and squeezes just a little bit tighter, and Kent clings on like a lemur.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I’m sorry, you didn’t sign up for this, you don’t, you don’t have to work with me, I –”

“It’s okay, shh. You don’t need to apologise. Well, you maybe owe me a shirt –” Kent manages a strangled laugh, “– but otherwise, we’re good.”

“Okay,” says Kent, and lets himself be held. Day doesn’t pull away until Kent does, and when that happens, he goes easily, steering Kent over to the couch with one warm hand on his shoulder.

“Sit,” he says, and Kent sits. “Do you have any tea in your cupboard?”

“I have vodka, sports drinks and caffeine,” says Kent. “And, uh. Hot chocolate.”

Day smiles. “Hot chocolate it is.”

Kent ought to be worried about letting a stranger work unsupervised in his kitchen, but he feels too drained to care, and if Day is going to hurt him somehow, it probably won’t involve food. Even so –

“You’re not going to roofie me, are you?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

“Just checking,” says Kent. “It’s never been my idea of fun.” He means it as a joke, but Day doesn’t laugh and Kent doesn’t blame him; he feels too raw, too overexposed, like all his old hurts are closer to the surface.              

“Happily, I wouldn’t know,” Day says, handing him a mug of hot chocolate.

Kent stares at it, caught off guard: somehow, Day has given him his favourite mug, the old worn one with Snoopy and Woodstock on the side, and it’s this, perhaps, that distracts him into giving an honest reply.

“I would. Do, I mean.”

“Shit,” Day says. “I’m sorry.”

Kent shrugs. He blows gently on the drink, watching the steam evaporate. “It was a long time ago.”

Hesitantly, Day says, “Did you ever think of reporting it?”

“Can’t,” says Kent. He takes a sip, savouring the warmth. “The statute’s expired.”

“What?”

“I grew up in New York. You can’t file charges there for – for what happened to me, once you’ve turned twenty-three. Which I have. So.”

Day looks confused. “But that’s only for child abuse cases.”

Kent raises an eyebrow. Day turns ashen.

“Oh. Oh, Jesus, Kent –”

Kent starts laughing. Day, perched in the armchair opposite, looks as though he isn’t sure whether to get up or stay where he is. Kent shakes his head and smiles – surprisingly genuine, given that he doesn’t quite feel like he’s all the way in his body.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice isn’t quite manic, but it’s got a strained edge to it. “Sorry, I keep dropping this heavy shit on you, it’s just – I’ve never told anyone that before, _anyone_ , and I didn’t... I wasn’t even sure I actually could. But I can, apparently.” He grins, and this time it feels awful. “Like I said. I’m really fucked up. And you’re meant to interview me, and you already know what I am. So I guess it’s like… I don’t know. I think a part of me just doesn’t care anymore. No offence.”

“None taken.” Day cradles his own mug, one of the generic black ones Kent bought when he first moved in. “When you say you’ve never spoken to anyone, does that include the team psychologist?”

Kent snorts. “What, like I’m going to trust a fucking _shrink_?”

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Day says wryly.

“It’s not – it’s not like I’m pretending I don’t have problems,” Kent says, gulping a mouthful of chocolate. He desperately wants to stop and keep going in nearly equal measure, the violent urge to confess his sins only slightly outweighing his terror of the consequences. “Like I have – or I had – or I still have, I don’t know – like, PTSD or whatever. Like, after Jack OD’d before the draft, I’d have these nightmares about it and I was, um. I was loud, apparently, and the guy I was staying with noticed, so I tried to look up stuff to help and that’s, reading stuff on PTSD, that’s how I figured out that what G–  what happened to me as a kid was wrong, like he made me think it was normal only it wasn’t, and. Well. Anyway, that’s why I got Kit. My cat. But not, like, she’s not named after a Kit Kat, she’s named after me, but I got her because the internet said therapy animals could help, you know, with trauma, and I guess it worked because I mostly don’t scream anymore, like maybe a few times a year but not every week? And she’s such a good cat, she always knows when I’m really fucked up and tries to help, and just, like, just having her here, I know I have to get up every day and feed her and keep everything clean, I can’t just let the house turn into a dumpster. And I drink too much sometimes, or just more than I should when I know I shouldn’t, like I wasn’t fully trashed last night, but I never do that shit sober. And there was a point early on where it wasn’t – it wasn’t healthy, what I was doing, how much I was drinking at home. But I got the C, and I couldn’t let everyone down, so I just, you know, I couldn’t _stop_ , because people would’ve asked questions, but I made myself pull way back. I hit the gym a lot, that year, and I – oh, god. I’ll stop talking now. I’m sorry.”

“You really don’t need to apologise,” Day says. “I’m just… I’m trying to think of how to say this so it won’t come out wrong, but – I’ve been following your career for a while now, and you’ve always impressed me. And that feels like a cheap thing to say, somehow, because obviously it’s not news to you that you’re fucking good at hockey –”

“It’s not,” said Kent, who isn’t above feeling cheered by hearing it anyway.

“– but knowing you’ve achieved all that while dealing with PTSD on your own, with being closeted… I hate that you’ve been hurt like that, and I’m mad as hell on your behalf that nobody’s ever tried to help you, but the fact that you’re still at the top of your field? That makes you fucking _extraordinary_. And I’m… I don’t want to say I’m grateful that you trust me, because I’m not quite sure you do, but I want you to know that it matters to me, that you’re telling me all these things; that I’m not taking it lightly. And maybe… I think, with this interview, I think what I’d like to do, if you’re okay with it, is just… you don’t have to lie to me. You don’t have to pretend. Just say whatever you want, and I won’t publish a word without your approval, but I think, if I can do this right – if I can do even a scrap of justice to who you are as a person – then I can show you how you look from the outside. How you look to me, to the people around you, in a way that might help you to see it, too, because I can tell you right now, there’s more to who you are than sex and hockey.”

Day’s voice is warm, and his eyes are warm, and Kent feels all over hot with shame, that he’s somehow convinced an otherwise sensible person to waste that warmth on him.

“You’re right,” he says, gripping his Snoopy mug. “Make that sex, hockey, an awesome cat and a killer selfie game.”

The look that flashes across Day’s face says Kent has kicked his metaphorical puppy. Day’s mouth twists; he sets his mug aside on the coffee table, drops to his knees, and shuffles awkwardly over to sit on his heels in front of Kent, close enough to touch but not doing so. It ought to be embarrassing, but Day grins disarmingly as he does it, like he’s aware that he’s being ridiculous for dramatic effect and doesn’t actually care, which Kent, as someone who routinely pretends indifference while caring deeply, cannot help but find breathtakingly attractive. Or maybe it’s just Day, full stop: you’d have to be blind to think he isn’t beautiful, and Kent’s dumb hands start trembling with the urge to reach down and touch his cheek.

“Kent Parson,” Day says, smiling and sincere. “You donate more of your earnings to charity than almost any player in the league – and I know that, not because you’ve ever publicised it, but because I’m damn good at research.”

“I donate money to stuff that affects me personally,” Kent counters, feeling an obscure yet visceral need to argue. “Animal shelters, You Can Play. RAINN. It’s purely self-serving.”

“If it was self-serving, you’d get something out of it other than knowing you’d done a good deed.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say to that, and so tries a change of tack. “If that’s all you’ve got –”

“You always volunteer to help with the Young Aces teams, and everyone says you’re great at encouraging kids to play.”

“That’s still hockey. Doesn’t count.”

Day tips his head to indicate the living room. “Okay, fine. You want to pretend you’ve got no interests outside hockey? Explain your bookshelves.”

Kent flushes, looking away. “You’re not meant to see those,” he says, quietly. “If the team’s coming over, I usually clear them out.”

Day looks momentarily dumbstruck. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t _fit_ ,” Kent says, voice cracking on the word. “And maybe I could work with that if I wasn’t a fucking disaster, but I _am_ , and that means I can’t be anything that makes other people ask questions. And those –” he waves a hand at the shelves, full of fantasy novels and history texts and biographies, everything he’s ever had an interest in that he couldn’t share or study with other people, “– they make people ask questions.”

“Possibly, I have very skewed priorities,” Day says, softly. “But somehow, I think that’s the saddest thing you’ve said to me.”

Kent swallows hard and looks away. “You’re not skewed. It’s sad because it’s something I do to myself.”

Very lightly, Day’s fingers brush Kent’s knuckles. The contact is electric; Kent jerks his head up, almost slopping his drink in the process, while Day snatches his hand back, a dusky blush staining his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says. “That wasn’t, uh. Shit.” He laughs, and though he shakes his head, the smile never leaves his eyes. “I was going to say that wasn’t professional of me, but I think we left the usual courtesies about three miles back.”

“God, don’t start being courteous,” Kent says. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Implying you know what to do the rest of the time?”

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Kent says, mouth twitching despite himself. “I’m being chirped in my own damn home.” He turns to look for Kit and finds her on the middle tier of her cat tree. “Kit, do you believe this?”

Kit yawns, showing off her gleaming canines. “Traitor,” Kent mutters fondly.

Day laughs.

“All right, all right,” Kent huffs, waving at Day. “You’ve made your point. I have more than four basic attributes, and we can discuss them at some time other than now, when you’re not on your knees and I’m not oversharing. Get up, would you?”

Day complies, returning to his prior seat in the armchair. Reclaiming his chocolate, he takes a sip and watches Kent do likewise, the mood between them inexplicably lightened.

“So,” says Day. “I’ve got a week to get to know you. Why don’t we work out a schedule?”

“Sure,” says Kent, and finds he doesn’t object at all. “Let’s do that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, the bit about the statute of limitations on reporting child sexual abuse in the state of New York is true: once the victim turns 23, they can no longer bring a case. Which... yeah. That is FUCKED UP.


	4. What Happens When He Stops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in this chapter: hockey injury, brief suicidal ideation.

As agreed, Day shows up in the locker room after practice the next morning. Kent snorts at the inevitable chirping – “Cap, you’ve got a fan? I never thought I’d see the day!” “Shut the fuck up, Danno, you ingrate,” – and rolls his eyes when Mads shakes Day’s hand and says, “Navarro, I hope you’re good at writing filler, because if Parser’s not playing hockey, I’m pretty sure he just walks around Vegas buying snapbacks and sunglasses.”

“Keeps a hoard of ‘em in his bedroom,” Racker adds. “Sleeps on it like a dragon, all curled up.”

Outwardly, Day laughs with the rest of them. But he looks at Kent as he does it, a flash of private amusement that says the joke is really on his teammates, a quiet _can you believe this shit?_. It’s a tiny thing, the smallest possible atom of solidarity, and Kent’s answering smile is disproportionately blinding as he says, “Falcor, though, not Smaug. You can write that down.”

This time, Day’s laughter is unrestrained, and Kent preens at having elicited it for the half second before Racker says, “The actual _fuck_ , cap?”

Kent freezes, belatedly aware that half the Aces are staring at him like he’s grown an extra head. Internally panicking, Kent tries to play it off and comes out with, “Yes, I’ve read a poem. Try not to faint.” Which would maybe be fine, except that it’s a fucking quote from _Serenity_ , and Kent’s only thinking of it because Day remarked on his _Firefly_ box set when Kent let him poke around his DVD collection yesterday, and oh, god, everyone’s even _more_ confused now, he’s made it worse –

Then Day says, utterly deadpan, “I understood that reference.”

And Kent fucking _loses it_. He cracks up completely, wheezing as he braces a hand on the locker shelf, and it’s Hells, mercifully, who joins in laughing – _of course it’s Hells_ , Kent thinks wildly, _the guy owns a Captain America shirt_ – which somehow makes it okay. The others join in, too, though more in the spirit of the thing than because they get the joke, and then Javvy says, with something like wonder, “Shit, cap. I didn’t know you could laugh like that.”

The words are fondly said, but they hit like a dash of cold water. Kent straightens up and forces a smile and says, as he grabs his stuff from his locker, “Not my fault you fuckers aren’t actually funny.”    

“Screw you,” says Danno. “I’m fucking _hilarious_.”

“Laughing at is different to laughing with,” chirps Hells, and as Racker cackles, Danno lunges at the rookie, trying and failing to put him in a headlock.

Kent slips out in the commotion, Day moving neatly to his side, and it’s not until they’re outside in the car park that Kent succumbs to giving Day a playful shove in the shoulder.

“I blame you for that, you asshole.”

Day grins, unrepentant. “That was all you, Parson. I just stood there.”

“You distracted me! You distracted me _on purpose_ , and now they all think I’m fucking weird.”

“In my defence,” says Day, pulling open the passenger side door, “it was Carrack who called you a dragon.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kent flaps a hand, waving the comment, but as he takes the wheel, his stomach twists. He’d swear his face doesn’t change at all, but Day is clearly a goddamn psychic, because when he next speaks, his voice is soft again.

“Do they really not know you at all?”

Kent stares ahead through the windshield. “They know what I want them to know. So, no. And I always… I guess I figured that there wasn’t really anything _to_ know. That hiding something meant I had to hide everything. And now I just… I don’t know how to undo it.”

“You’ve never been yourself with your team? Even before the draft?”

“I used to have Jack –” Kent says, then stops dead, floored by the enormity of the reveal. He sneaks a glance at Day, who’s sitting perfectly still, and forces himself to continue. “I… in the Q, Jack and I – you know the old rumours about us?”

“A little,” Day admits.

“They were true. Or at least, the part where we were fucking was. But I never –” he scrapes the words out of his throat, astonished as much by their truth as by how much they still hurt, “– I never actually knew if we were dating. We didn’t talk about it. We were kids, we didn’t know how, and there was so much stuff... He was my best friend, and we slept together sometimes, and he was the first, the f- first person my own age after, after I, after what happened to me, but he never knew that, but I was _me_ with him, and I l- loved him, I loved – I thought, all this time I thought I still loved – I thought he – I thought –” Kent makes an ugly noise, eyes hot with tears, “– I thought he was going to come back to me, but he didn’t, he won’t, and I was so fucking _stupid_ , I thought I just had to beat him and it would be better, but you saw me after the Falcs game, you saw… you saw what I’m _like_ , when I’m not with him, and he’s got someone new, and I just –” he chokes the tears back, forces his voice to stop wavering, forces his mouth to smile, “– I just have to get my fucking head in order. You know?”

He inhales deeply, hands white-knuckled where they grip the wheel, and unclenches one to reach down and turn the ignition.

Day reaches out to grip his shoulder, squeezing far too gently. Kent shuts his eyes against wanting, and whispers, “Please, don’t. I can’t handle it if you do that.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it,” Day says, low and fervent. “Not like this. Not alone.” But he slowly pulls his hand back anyway, letting it fall in his lap.

Kent’s shoulder burns like an altar.

For a long moment, they’re both silent. Then Kent shakes his head, reopens his eyes and starts reversing, forcing himself to concentrate on the moment. _Car. Drive. Chores. Talking. Act like a fucking person._

“So,” says Kent, as they finally pull out onto the road. “After practice, I usually go straight home, but I’m running low on food right now, which means shopping. Glamorous, huh?”

“Maslow’s hierarchy is a cruel mistress,” Day says sagely.

Kent lets himself laugh. “You know what, Day? I understood that reference.”           

 

*

 

The problem with having Day shadow him through his daily routines, Kent quickly realises, is that, barring time spent on the ice, there’s nothing he routinely does that’s more interesting than Day himself. At the grocery store, he feels like he ought to be explaining his choice of products, giving Day something to work with for his article, and instead they spend the entire trip arguing gleefully about cereal mascots. Unpacking his things at home, Day insists on helping and, after crouching down to investigate the state of Kent’s pantry, ends up with Kit Purrson leaping onto his shoulder. Kent has a minor panic at this – some people only like cats at a distance, and Kit’s claws are _sharp_ – but Day just laughs and scratches her chin, not minding at all when she digs in hard with her forepaws to compensate for her missing hind leg.

Once Kit safely relocates to her cat tree, Kent ends up telling Day the full story of how he’d adopted her, which somehow leads to Day insisting that Kent needs to watch _How to Train Your Dragon_. Kent agrees, but only on the proviso that Day watch it with him; Day agrees in turn, and Kent buys it through his Amazon account while Day makes popcorn, which decision ultimately culminates in Kent crying like a goddamn _child_ through the film’s denouement.  

“I hate you,” Kent says, when the credits start rolling. His face is a teary mess; his throat actually _hurts_. “I’m serious. Subjecting me to that was inhumane. I am _emotionally vulnerable_ right now, okay, I did not need to have fucking _feelings_ about a CGI dragon and his misfit tiny Viking.”

“Let it all out,” Day says. He’s practically _beaming_ , the fucker. “It’s good for you. Therapeutic.”

“Fuck therapeutic,” says Kent, “I’m reporting you to the goddamn Geneva Convention. I am _wounded_ , injured in the deepest sense –”   

“There’s a sequel,” Day says, idly.

They watch that, too.

 

*

 

Their next home game is against the Panthers. Technically, Day has a press pass, but Kent’s pulse does something complicated at the thought of looking up to see him in the family section, and so he makes it happen. He’s chirped for it, of course, and more than one of his teammates hits brutally near the mark with their comments, albeit by accident. Only the fact that he’s braced for it allows Kent to keep a straight face, and even so, a part of him is terrified that he’s utterly lost his mind. But when the puck drops, he knows exactly where Day is the same way he can find his teammates on the ice, a subtle orientation like the tug of a compass needle. Coming into the game against the Falcs, Kent was externally calm and internally screaming; against the Panthers, he finds himself almost laughing.

Kent has always been good at hockey. It’s the only constant in his life, the one thing he can rely on. He loves playing, and always has. But there’s something in the knowledge that there’s a person watching just for him – a person he knows and likes, whose opinion he values; a person he gets to hang out with once the game is done – that makes him feel newly joyful. Most days, he never wants to get off the ice, because being on it represents the only comfort and certainty he’s ever really had. But with Day in the stands, he wants to play well and quickly, so he can talk about it afterwards. He wants to win, but he doesn’t want the game to go into OT. He feels _awake_ , and the ice opens up around him like a map unrolled on a table.

Kent scores twice in the first period and once again in the second, earning him a hatty. Every time, the Aces collectively swamp him during the celly, and every time, Kent finds himself looking for Day in the stands, his wide smile getting wider as he spots him cheering. Even when he’s on the bench, he feels exhilarated.

The Panthers score one goal late in the second period and follow it with another early in the third. Kent narrows his eyes as he takes the ice; like hell is he letting them tie this up. The Aces play hard offence, and Kent swears when Fender gets two minutes for tripping, giving the Panthers a power play in the Aces’ zone. Mads wins the faceoff against Bjugstad and passes to Kent, who skates hard for neutral ice and winds up to pass to Danno, only to find that Danno’s suddenly blocked in by Ekblad and Yandle. Not wanting to make a suicide pass, Kent pivots and looks for options: he sees Javvy trying to make space for himself, but turning puts him right in a charging Bjugstad’s path with no time left to move.

Bjugstad slams into him at full tilt, shoulder to chest. The hit is clean, but because all 6’6 of Bjugstad is leaning down to keep from landing an illegal head-check on his 5’10 target, the momentum as he straightens up and skates through flings Kent right off his feet. Airborne, the back of his head smacks hard into the plexiglass a half-second before he thumps down the boards and, unable to get his skates stabilised under him, crashes sideways onto the ice. Stunned, Kent flops on his side as someone shouts in shock. It’s Danno, charging in too late to help and far too fast to stop.

Danno’s lead skate crashes hard into Kent’s visor; the other gets under his chin, blade first.

The moment stretches, syrup slow. Kent feels the burst of pain in his pulse; he doesn’t quite know what’s happened, but he knows it’s bad. Head ringing from the skate’s impact, he finally gets a hand under him and staggers upright. His throat throbs wrongly, and he has just enough time to think _oh Christ, fuck_ before a bright spray of his own blood hits the ice, too much and too dark.

The sight leaves him paralyzed. Still stunned from the dual hits, he can’t decide whether he needs to skate hard for the bench or stay where he is, and as he falters, more blood gushes out. It leaves him lightheaded; he lurches forwards but doesn’t quite fall, fumbling desperately to pull off a glove because he needs a hand free, he needs to do something quickly or he’s going to fucking bleed out –

A bare hand slaps against his throat, putting pressure on the wound. It’s Hells, white-faced and determined, his free hand tugging Kent urgently towards the bench as the doctors come bolting over. Kent’s world narrows, his traitor pulse thunderously loud in his own ears. He’s aware of blood dripping through his rookie’s fingers and onto the ice, of a grey and queasy faintness building behind his ribs; of the broken part of him wondering if he cares what happens next. He doesn’t really have anyone outside his team, and if he dies at the top of his game, he’ll never have to worry about fixing his head or being outed or learning to live without hockey once he’s too old to play, and this way, it’s not even his fault. He can be remembered as this version of himself forever, perfect and inviolate, and only two people will ever know how much of it was a lie.

And then he thinks of Kit, and Day, and never making up with Jack, and is so profoundly terrified by his own apparent willingness to die – not in the abstract, not in passing or after a nightmare, but at a point where it might really happen – that he starts to hyperventilate. It’s the least helpful thing he could possibly do, and knowing that only makes it worse.

All around, there are people moving, waving hands and angry shouts and urgent questions, everyone working frantically to keep him alive and whole. But as he’s bundled onto a stretcher, head pounding as a new hand holds his throat, Kent Parson feels more profoundly alone than he ever has in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter absolutely comes from Lucky by Britney Speares, who we all know Kent loves. I APOLOGISE FOR NOTHING.


	5. Jack of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: non-graphic verbal description of past child abuse.

Later, Kent doesn’t remember the ride to the hospital as anything more than a blur. He lets himself drift, aware in a vague, peripheral sense that his total non-responsiveness is likely spooking the people around him, but he’s too disembodied to care. He hears the words _artery_ and _emergency surgery_ , and then he’s being anesthetised, and everything falls away.

When Kent wakes up again, he’s in a hospital bed. There are IV lines in the crooks of his arms, a dressing on his neck, an array of monitoring devices attached to various bits of skin, and an all-over bodily sense that he’s been recently hit by a truck, or possibly a herd of Zdeno Charas. He coughs, wincing at the sting in his neck and the odd mental image both, and accidentally attracts the attention of a nearby doctor, who hurries over to ask how he’s feeling.

Kent wants to laugh at that, but gets the firm impression that doing so might hurt. Tentatively, he says, “Alive,” and blinks at the strange, achy pain that follows. His actual _voice_ is fine, but the vibration from speaking thrums through the stitched up wound in a way that would be kind of fascinating if it didn’t also hurt, while swallowing feels, not quite like pushing a bruise, but as though he’s somehow tugging on one with a fishhook.

The doctor nods and explains, in mercifully simple terms, what happened: Danno’s skate sliced Kent’s carotid artery open, but didn’t cut it all the way through, which made it comparatively easy to repair. _More Zednik than Malarchuk_ , he says, and Kent musters up a feeble smile for the comparison despite the fact that he’s going to be out for a fortnight, minimum, with at least three more days in hospital. The smile widens fractionally when he learns that one of his drips is morphine – he can press a button to get a hit, but only once every twenty minutes – then freezes in place when the doctor asks if he’s up to having visitors.

 “Your people have been out there all night,” he adds, which is how Kent learns it’s now early Friday morning. “I understand that they’ve been going home to sleep in shifts, but there’s still a lot of people waiting to see that you’re okay.”

“I’ll see them,” Kent says, because that’s what you’re meant to do, and doesn’t dare ask if Day is among those waiting.

Within minutes, he finds himself surrounded by hockey players. First in are Katzy, Mads and Javvy, all of whom try to talk at once until Katzy smacks the other two upside the head and says, voice oddly watery, “You scared us there, cap.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Kent says, and is utterly shocked when Katzy responds by squeezing his free hand, quick and hard.

“We won,” says Javvy, into the sudden silence. “3-2. The whole crowd was cheering for you.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say to that, and is saved from trying by Mads, of all people.

“Danno’s fucking beside himself,” he says, voice raw. “He thought he’d killed you. He thinks you’re going to hate him now. He’s offering to be traded, if you want. It’s why he didn’t come. He didn’t think you’d want to see him.”

“What?” says Kent, bewildered. He thinks he might be too out of it for this. “It was an accident. Why would I hate him?” He pauses, summoning the memory of that stretched-out instant, and realises, with the clarity of hindsight, that Danno must’ve tried to bleed all his momentum into the skate that hit his helmet, struggling to keep the other blade back – if he’d been shoving it forward at the same speed, the cut would’ve been far deeper. Kent’s stitches throb at the prospect, as does the accompanying bruise on his forehead. “I saw him try to stop. I know he tried. He pulled back. Tell him to come. No trading.”

The pure relief that crosses Mads’s face makes Kent feel equal parts glad and guilty: glad that he’s assuaged Mads’s fears, but guilty that Danno thinks he would’ve traded him in the first place.

“Most of the other guys went home,” says Javvy, cutting through Kent’s introspection, “but they’ll all want to see you.”

Kent swallows. “Who’s still here?”

Katzy answers. “Hells and Racker. Your agent, the GM.” He pauses, frowning. “And that journalist, what’s his name? Navarro? We can make him leave if you want.”

“Day,” says Kent, voice just shy of cracking. “His name is Day. And don’t.” He licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. “I want him here.”

“Whatever you say, cap,” says Javvy. Kent blinks at that, unsure what to say: Javvy _hates_ journalists. “We’ll send in the others, eh? Don’t want to tire you out.”

“Sure,” says Kent. “And, uh. Thanks. You know. For staying. You didn’t have to do that.”

Mads snorts. “Don’t be an asshole,” he says, fondly. “You’re our _captain_ , Parser.”

Kent watches them leave the room, and wonders if there’s a word for how he’s feeling. _If there is,_ he thinks, _it’s probably in German. One of those compound words that sounds like they tossed the alphabet down the stairs._

His throat twinges sharply. He hits the morphine button.

Next in are his agent, the GM, the coach and, weirdly, Racker, who looks dead on his feet, staying just long enough to croak out relief and good wishes before lumbering out again. His agent, Tasha, squeezes his hand more softly than Katzy did and tells him to let her know if he needs anything, and that they’ll be releasing a statement soon to let the fans know he’s okay; the GM, Patrick, who manages the impressive feat of looking even more exhausted than Racker, tells Kent that the Aces have his back, to take as long as he needs to recover – a sentiment the coach echoes with furious nodding – and  adds that “we’ll be keeping the ice warm for you. Or cold, rather. Cold? Fuck.” He runs a hand down his face and laughs. “It’s been a long goddamn night.”

“Get some sleep,” Kent tells them all, expansive as the morphine works through him. “I hear it works wonders.”

The trio smile, tell Kent to get better soon, and leave.

Kent’s briefly left alone again, until Hells pokes his head in the doorway. The rookie is pale and tired, dark bags hanging under bloodshot eyes. Kent’s stomach lurches at the sight. Hells is barely nineteen, but he was the one who thought to act; who compressed Kent’s wound and helped him to the bench. He shuffles in awkwardly, hands flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them now, and comes to a halt at the foot of Kent’s bed.

“Hey, cap,” he says, voice small.

“Hey, Hellier,” Kent replies. God, the kid sounds so _young_. “Thanks for getting me off the ice, and for that assist in the first. You really did good last night.”

Hells looks overwhelmed. “Thanks, cap,” he says, and then blurts out, “I fed your cat for you. I mean, I couldn’t – afterwards, I couldn’t go back on the ice, so I got your keys from your locker because nobody had a spare, and I went to your place and like, I remembered you said you had a timed feeder for her somewhere? So I dug it out and like, put some dry food in it and set it up for every three hours, which is I hope is okay, and I left her two bowls of water and I put out some wet food, too, I don’t know what you normally do but I sort of panicked because I didn’t know how long you’d be out or, um. Yeah. But she seemed fine on her own, just sad that I wasn’t you. I hope that was all right?”

Kent stares at Hells, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. _Kit_ , Jesus, he hadn’t even _thought_ about Kit yet, what the fuck kind of cat owner is he?      

“Oh, god,” Kent croaks, “Thank you. Thank you _so much_ , Hells, I fucking – I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before, I should’ve asked about her, I –” He breaks off only because Hells looks genuinely alarmed, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “Just. Thank you. I’ll, uh. I ought to be out of here in a few days, but if – if you could keep checking up on her, or I could give you my catsitter’s number –”

“I’ll do it,” Hells says quickly. “I mean, if you don’t mind. Kit’s really cool.”

“She’s the best,” Kent says, chest aching. “ _You’re_ the best.”

Hells looks like he wants to cry. “I, uh. I should – I should probably go, you know. Sleep. I just… I’m really glad you’re okay, cap.”

“Me, too,” Kent says, and means it.

Hells wavers, bobbing in place like there’s something else he wants to say but doesn’t quite know how to verbalise. He’s 6’4 and change, but looks smaller with his shoulders hunched, his brown hair sweat-messy and rumpled.

“Hells?” Kent prompts, his voice as soft as he can make it. “Are _you_ okay?”

Hells startles, eyes going wide, and Kent says quickly, “Because it’s all right if you’re not. I mean.” He winces, wanting to rub his head but wary of dislodging his cannulas, and tries again. “I mean, what happened… you’re allowed to be freaked out. Nobody’s going to think less of you for it, and if they do, you send them to me. I just.” He looks at his rookie, trying to sound like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about, and somehow comes out with, “When Jack – when Zimmerman overdosed at the Q, I was the one who found him. And it messed me up after, thinking it was my fault, that I should’ve done something better or quicker, even though he didn’t die. Katzy noticed, tried to tell me to get help, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I thought I could handle it all by myself. I lied to him.” His voice wavers sharply, and not just because he’s starting to tire. “I lied to _everyone_. I still am, about a lot of things. But I’m trying to do better. And I think… as a rookie, I know it feels like you have to be perfect, like you can’t ask for help, but you can, Hells. You can talk to me. Or your friends, or your mom, or the team psychiatrist. Whoever. Just… you got me off the ice, man. You stepped up. But you’re still allowed to be freaked out by it all.”

Hells breaks into a tremulous smile and nods, just once. “Thanks, Parse,” he whispers.

Kent watches Hells leave in silence, his feelings an absolute mess. His throat is really starting to hurt, but he doesn’t regret a word of it. He’s always tried to be a good captain, but right now, just this once, he thinks he might have managed to be a great one.

 

*

 

When Day comes in, it feels like the whole world stops.

He’s wearing his glasses, his hair loose around his face, a later-than-five-o-clock shadow darkening his jaw. He’s still wearing his clothes from the night before, a soft-looking green Henley and dark jeans, and rather than stop at the foot of Kent’s bed, he comes up beside him and grips his hand, their fingers tangling as Kent grips back.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Day asks urgently. “Not your neck, the doctor already said – I mean, how are _you_?”

He’s the first person to ask Kent that.

“I don’t know,” Kent says. He runs a thumb across Day’s hand, needing the contact in a way he can’t articulate. “I think I’m going to be. I think I just had a lot of shit put in perspective.” And then, the words punched out of him, “I’m sick of being scared.”

“I was terrified,” Day says quietly. “Watching it happen.”

Kent’s pulse leaps. “I can’t believe you stayed.”

“I had to.” Day gulps, pressing their palms together. Kent can barely breathe. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here, but I had to come.”

“I do. I do want you.” _Here_ , Kent should specify, _I want you_ here, but his throat hurts and he’s all out of words, and Day’s hand is warm in his.

“We should,” Day says, and stops, voice shaking. “We need to discuss this. Not – not now, obviously. But we do need to.”

Kent nods, heart in his throat. “I told Hells to talk to someone,” he says. It feels important that Day knows this. “He fed my cat, and I told him I was all fucked up after Jack. That he should get help if he needs it. Be better than me.” He looks pleadingly at Day, willing him to understand. “I can’t _be_ like this anymore. Nobody should.”

Day inhales sharply. Nods. He looks at Kent, and Kent looks at him, and their mutual silence feels like a conversation.

Eventually, Kent says, “You should, uh. You should go home. Sleep.”

“I know,” Day says. “I’m fucking tired. I just.” He smiles shakily. “I hate the thought of you being in here alone.”

Kent makes a noise in his throat. It hurts. Everything hurts, and he doesn’t care. The IVs mean he can’t really bend his arms, or he’d pull Day’s hand up and kiss it; instead, he presses his thumb to his palm-heart, smoothing back and forth. It’s no secret, the fact that Kent Parson has no family. Only child of a young single mother who died when he was four. Went straight to the loving care of a pair of older foster parents, one of whom got him into hockey, where he stayed until age ten, when his foster father suffered a severe stroke and had to be cared for thereafter by his wife, who couldn’t afford to keep fostering. Moved to a busy foster family until he was nearly sixteen, then went to the Q, and then to the Aces. Old news. Not worth mentioning, especially when everyone knows Kent Parson is fine on his own.

Everyone, it seems, except Damian Navarro.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Day asks. “You said Hells is looking after Kit, but is there something you want brought here, or a call you need to make?”

Kent almost says no, but hesitates. Maybe there is someone, he realises. Someone other than Day who might want to see him, or at least speak to him, if only to make sure he isn’t dead. Someone to whom Kent owes an explanation.

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “I think there is.”

 

*

 

Kent spends the rest of the morning half asleep and morphine high in the ICU. He’s subjected to the intermittent checks and questions of the nurses monitoring him, but is otherwise left in blissful peace. In the afternoon, when he’s finally deemed stable enough to rate a regular private room – and to get the saline drip out of his arm – his stomach clenches at the realisation that this means he’ll be allowed to use his phone. Not, of course, that he currently _has_ his phone – it was in his gear bag along with his wallet and keys, which means that it’s most likely now with Hells or Day – but he’ll have a hospital landline, which means he can call and ask someone to bring it to him.

Kent lets himself be put in a wheelchair for the transition with only minor protest. He can walk, he’s discovered – blood transfusion is a marvellous thing – but his legs feel shaky, and despite his armour, there’s a bruise in his chest from where Bjugstad’s shoulder landed.

His new room is cushy, as hospital rooms go. Certainly, his old foster-father never had anything anywhere this good during his stroke. Kent shoves the thought away, then promptly feels guilty for doing so, and has a sudden, desperate longing to see Day. The nurse asks if he wants anything, and he shakes his head, easing into the freshly-made bed. He’s already given them a list of permitted visitors, and even though he’s barely been awake for an hour, he falls asleep again quickly.

He wakes for dinner, which looks surprisingly good, but finds himself more interested in the accompanying envelope, which is large and clearly filled with more than paper.

“Visiting hours are over,” the nurse explains, “but one of your friends insisted we get this to you.”

“Thanks,” says Kent. He’s desperately curious, but knows if he gets distracted now, he’ll forget to eat, and so forcibly turns his attention to the soft, creamy pasta he’s been given. He wolfs it down, astonished by his own hunger, and follows it up with a chocolate pudding cup. _Maslow’s hierarchy_ , he thinks, and smiles at the private joke.

With that done, he unseals the envelope and tips the contents onto his lap: his iPhone and charger, a block of white chocolate, his wallet, and a letter. He picks up the last of these and reads it, smiling all the while.

_Kent,_

_I went to see Keiran Hellier this afternoon, to get the key to your place. He didn’t want to give it to me at first – he was worried that I might be an unscrupulous reporter looking for dirt – but once I gave him your message, he drove me there himself. We checked on Kit and played with her a bit, cleaned up her things and made sure her feeder was working, which it is. (Keiran was worried she might be lonely, so he put a movie on for her.) He’d left your phone and wallet on the counter, and I got the charger from your bedroom._

_I called Jack afterwards. He’s sent you a lot of messages, I think, but that was before we spoke. He was really worried about you, but he sounded nervous, too. Either way, he’s expecting your call._

_Unless you text me otherwise, I’ll come by tomorrow morning. Keiran is going to bring you some clothes, and I think he said your other teammates want to come by, too. Just thought I’d give you a heads’ up. (I had been going to give you this stuff in person, but the nurse said you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you; hence the envelope.)_

_Day_

_PS: The chocolate is from Kit :)_

It’s a stupidly simple letter, to make Kent as simultaneously glad and worried as it does: glad, because Day went to the trouble of writing it and getting his stuff – and because he sent him his favourite chocolate _from his cat_ , oh god; Kent has to take a genuine moment to process his feelings about that small kindness – and worried because, well. Aside from the terrifying prospect of phoning Jack, a lifetime’s worth of trust issues don’t go away just because of a measly near-death experience. Hells being worried that Day is a nosy reporter is, logically, a valid worry: not only has he been in Kent’s house – in Kent’s bedroom, even – but in order to make sure Jack actually took Day’s call, Kent gave him the passcode to his phone, so that Day could use it. But what if he looks at more than just his contacts list? Kent has added and deleted Grindr more times than he can count; he never puts his face on his pics and never agrees to meet in person, but sometimes he snapchats with random guys, and what if Day looked at them, what if he went through Kent’s emails or his Facebook settings or, oh god, the porn gifs tagged and saved on his highly anonymous tumblr account, which Day might now know about, too?

His heart starts racing, his breaths coming fast and shallow. What if Day has been lying to him this whole time, and every secret Kent’s ever told him is going to end up in a tell-all magazine article? He’s mid-panic when a nurse opens the door and comes hurrying in; Kent stares at her, wide-eyed in shock, and chokes out, “Do you need something?”

“Your vitals are spiking,” she says. “Are you in pain? Any nausea or numbness, headaches, anything unusual?”

Kent chokes on laughter, still struggling to breathe. “Panic attack,” he gasps. “Sorry.”

The nurse’s face softens, one hand touching his shoulder as the other flips some presumably salient switch on his heart-rate monitor. “Will it help if I count? For your breathing?”

“Sure,” Kent says, and she does, and it does, her grip on him firm but gentle. Slowly, Kent shudders back into himself, and when he finally comes to, he blinks at the nurse and lies back on the pillow, utterly wrung out.

“There you go,” she says, not unkindly. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“No,” Kent says, wearily. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine now.”

Her brow furrows at that, like she doesn’t quite believe him, but he puts on his media smile until she gives in and leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

Other than Day and Katzy – and, once, long ago, Jack – the nurse is the first person to ever see him like that and understand what it means. Will she go to the media, too? Is Kent going to wake up tomorrow to a Deadspin headline about how the Aces captain is already losing his nerve in the wake of a traumatic injury and needs psychological help?

“How the fuck do you trust people?” Kent mutters under his breath, but rather than stress him out again, the verbalised absurdity of the question helps him to flip it around.

Kent has lived his whole adult life – and a nearly half his teenage years – in the media spotlight, all while taking constant care to hide who he is from everyone close to him. Of _course_ he doesn’t know how to trust people: aside from a bare handful of exceptions, of whom Jack is still first and foremost, Kent’s never really trusted anyone at all. His default approach to human interaction is to assume that, sooner or later, he’s going to get screwed over, and to resign himself accordingly. It’s why he hides even benign things, like his reading habits, from teammates he’s known for years: he doesn’t trust them not to find a way to hurt him with it, and the fact that their betrayal never comes does nothing to quell the certainty that it _could_. That he’s suddenly terrified of being backstabbed by Day or the nurse is only partially due to the fact they’ve seen his vulnerabilities; what’s changed, he realises abruptly, is the fact that he _wants_ to trust them, is exhausted by the prospect of caring, constantly and achingly, what other people think of him.

 _What’s the worst thing that can happen?_ He forces himself to consider the question, dredging up all his oldest fears like deep sea fish hauled to the surface. _Day outs me, tells everyone I was abused as a kid and have PTSD and like to get fucked at seedy bars by strangers, and laughs about how gullible I am. The Aces turn on me, I lose my team and my sponsorships and my fans, and the media goes nuts._ He takes a moment, fighting down the nascent, sick panic the prospect evokes. _But some people would still take my side. I’d still be an awesome hockey player, even if I had to work as a free agent. I’d still have Kit, and more money than I know what to do with, and Jack… I think Jack would hate to see that happen to anyone, even me. I’d still be the first out player in the NHL. I’d still need therapy and a retirement plan and all that other shit, but I could actually go on dates, too. I could try and make friends._

_I could be myself around people._

Kent cradles his phone in his hands, and marvels at how much bigger and less terrifying it is than the box he’s been living in for the past five years.

Hands shaking only slightly, he turns on the phone and checks his messages, ignoring every thread but the one from Jack.

20:02, Thursday: _I’m watching your game. I saw what happened. Please be all right, Kenny._

20:29, Thursday: _They just announced that you’re in hospital in a stable condition. I hope you’re okay._

21:17, Thursday: _I don’t know what to do. Bitty says you must not have your phone with you and I can’t get through to anyone else. Maybe that means they’re all with you? I’m so scared._

21:20, Thursday: _Please be okay._

21:23, Thursday: _S'il te plaît, ne meurs pas. Je ne pourrais pas le supporter._

22:55, Thursday: _I’m so sorry, Kenny. For overdosing, for cutting you out afterwards. I don’t think I’ve ever understood what that must have been like for you, to have to watch me almost die and not be able to reach me or tell anyone how you were feeling, and to then be expected to play and do press like nothing was wrong. I think now that you always needed more from me than I understood or knew how to give, and I was too stuck in my own head to see why it mattered. I thought that we were bad for each other in general, not that I was bad for you in particular. I thought your feeling neglected was your problem, not mine, but it was something I did to you over and over, and I can’t ever be sorry enough for that. You hurt me when you came to the Haus, but I treated you like you didn’t matter – like your feelings didn’t matter – and then acted like you were just being cruel when you lashed out at me for it. Everyone calls me a robot, and I hope that’s less true now than it was once, but I was robotic to you when you needed a real boy, and I can’t stand the thought that I might never get to tell you that in person, either because something’s gone wrong or because you’re too angry to ever want to speak to me again. And if you were, I’d understand. I’m sorry it took something this terrible for me to see it your way. I’m sorry about a lot of things. I just want you to be okay._

15:49, Friday: _Your friend just rang and said you haven’t had your phone with you, but that you’re leaving the ICU and will call when you can. I don’t have a game today. Whenever you ring, I’ll be here._

Kent lets the phone drop, hunches over and sobs into his hands. He doesn’t know how to process this, how to deal with _Jack apologising,_ Jack acting like Kent isn’t the one who fucked everything up between them, and only fear of accidentally summoning a nurse again lets him get himself under control.

Scrubbing a wrist across his eyes, Kent sucks in air and calls Jack.

 

*

 

It’s easily after 10pm in Providence, but Jack picks up on the second ring, sounding utterly nerve-wracked. “ _Kenny_?”

“Jesus fuck, Zimms,” Kent says, voice rough with tears. “What happened with us wasn’t your fault, it’s _me_ , I’m the one who fucked it up. You had your own shit to deal with, but at least I knew that; you had no idea what was wrong with me because I was too fucking dumb to tell you, I never told _anyone_ until this week, and I can’t, I can’t let you put it all on yourself, like I didn’t know how to work a fucking phone or catch a plane when you were in rehab? I could’ve tried harder, too.”

“Kenny, _no_ ,” says Jack, appalled. “I needed space and you gave me that, and I acted like it meant nothing, cost you nothing. And at the Q, we were both under so much pressure over the draft, and I knew you wanted to talk about what that meant for us, but I always brushed you off –”

“You weren’t my first,” Kent blurts.

Jack goes jarringly silent. Kent grips the phone so hard, the case creaks.

“I mean.” He shuts his eyes, trembling as he finds the words. “You were, in a way, but not – not like I was to you. There was, uh. Oh, god. In New York, before the Q, I had this neighbour, and I thought – you need to know, for years, I thought what he did was normal, but I was… he was a cop, and I was eleven when it started, and I thought –”

Jack makes a noise like he’s been stabbed, his voice a horrified whisper. “ _Mon Dieu_.”

“– I thought,” Kent says, voice breaking, “that it happened to everyone like us. I thought it had happened to _you_ , and I didn’t understand why you acted so differently, how you could just say _no_ to me sometimes, like nobody ever taught you it meant _try harder_. You never pushed me or drugged me, never told me what I did wrong, and I thought that meant I wasn’t worth the effort, that I wasn’t good enough for someone like you. And I felt so fucking _ashamed_ of that, Zimms, like I’d done all his awful training and I was still getting it _wrong_ , but you never knew about any of that, because I was too fucking stupid to realise –”

“ _Non_ ,” Jack says desperately, “ _non, non_ – Kenny, my god, _no_ , you weren’t stupid, you _weren’t_ , it wasn’t your fault –”

“– all I had to do was _think_ –”

“– I should’ve done more for you, tried to help –”

“– I knew you were taking too many pills, I could’ve said something –”

“– you drank so much it scared me sometimes, I should’ve asked _why_ –”

“– I’m sorry –”

“– _I’m_ sorry –”

“– you competitive _fucker_ , stop being so fucking Canadian and let me fucking _apologise_ –”

“– _you_ stop being a self-sacrificing _asshole_ and let _me_ say sorry –”    

A sudden pause. A beat of silence.

And then, as one, they both start laughing. Softly at first, then harder and harder, like thunderous rainfall dissipating years of awful pressure. Tears are streaming down Kent’s face, half pure relief, half raw hysteria; Jack sounds like he’s in danger of pulling a muscle, or possibly snapping a rib. In the background of the call, Kent overhears a southern voice asking worriedly if Jack’s all right, and it only makes both of them crack up further, until their terrible, seizing laughter finally peters out in snorts and cackles.

“Oh my god,” Kent gasps, “I told you I was abused and you called me an _asshole_ , your Canadian status is revoked _so hard_ – ”    

“I finally used my words and you called me competitive!”

“See, and this is why it’s all my fault!” Kent crows. “You do your best, and I still bring out the worst in you.”

“And this is why that’s bullshit and it’s all _my_ fault,” Jack counters. “You do _your_ best, and I still make it all about me.”

Kent manages one final burst of laughter, smiling so hard that his face hurts more than his stitches. “I fucking love you, Zimms, you know that?”

Jack chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. I love you too, Kenny.”

The simple words sink into Kent like sunset into the sea. His depths are lightened, some inner horizon left liminal, limitless, limned with gold. And like his heart is a circuit breaker, as one gate closes, another swings cleanly open.

“Jack,” says Kent, breathless with hope. “I think I’ve met someone.”

        

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to correct my terrible Google translate French, please do, and I will fix this! (Jack's message is meant to say "Please don't die. I couldn't bear it.") Advice about any medical inaccuracies is also welcome; I likely won't change the fic unless it's a simple substitution, but new knowledge is always welcome to help me do better next time :)
> 
> I AM DROWNING IN FEELS AFTER WRITING THIS, YOU ALL HAVE TO SUFFER WITH ME
> 
> Update 3/4/16: I've fixed the French thanks to helpful commenter corrections. Thanks, guys! :)


	6. The Using of Words (is a Difficult Matter)

The irony of being hospitalised, Kent learns on Saturday morning, is that it turns out to involve more talking to people than being well typically does. The Aces have another home game in the evening, but the whole team comes by after morning skate, crowding into his room in a looming jostle of bodies. Yaks and Petty, his third line D-men, vow to bring the strongest bottle of proper Russian vodka they can find to toast Kent’s eventual return to the ice; Kent laughs at the sentiment, ignoring the vivid sense-memory of nights spent downing Smirnoff to sleep, and affectionately tells them both to fuck off in Russian.

Yaks wipes a fake tear from his eye. “You swearing so good! This is why you best captain, Parser – you understanding true Russian teamship.”

“Upshut your fuck, Yasha,” says Petty, slapping him across the back of the head. It’s an old Aces in-joke from Yaks’s rookie year, and one that sets the whole team laughing. Yaks play-swipes at Petty and mutters a well-worn Russian comeback, rolling his eyes as Petty turns to Kent and says, “ _I’ll_ be getting the vodka, not this one. His liver is weak, like Javvy’s selfie game.”

From the back of the room, Javvy yells, “I fucking heard that, you Soviet shit!”

Without turning, Petty holds up a hand and flips him off over his shoulder, saying casually, “You are welcome to suck my entire ballsack, Javier Junklickovitch Jara, assuming your duckface lips can stretch that far.”

“For fuck’s sake, you two,” Racker growls, “we’re in a fucking hospital. Mind your fucking manners.”

Swoops pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lord, give me strength.”

Mads sniggers. “That’s what she said!”

“FINE!” Racker yells. “That’s a fine right there.”

“The fuck it is!”

“The fuck it isn’t! She said jokes are banned since three roadies ago, you know that.”

“He’s right,” says Katzy. “That’s twenty in the sin tin, Mads.”

Loudly, Swoops says, “I don’t know these people. I’m lost and alone in a social wilderness!”

“Your _dick_ is lost and alone,” Mads mutters.

Kent sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Raised by wolves, the goddamn lot of you.” But he grins as he says it, unbearably fond of his hopeless, asshole teammates.

One by one, the Aces circle past his bedside, patting his shoulder or ruffling his hair as they each say their piece, until the herd has thinned to just Hells and Danno. Glancing between them, Hells jerks his thumb at the door in an I’ll-just-wait-outside gesture and gives them some privacy, which is just as well: Danno looks as distressed as Kent has ever seen him, shoulders hunched tight as his big hands twist and pull at his favourite snapback.

“If you’re going to apologise,” Kent says, “don’t. It was an accident, Danno. I know you tried to stop –”

“I read the play wrong,” Danno blurts. “I should’ve cut wide so you had a clean pass; if I’d done that, Bjugstad wouldn’t have checked you in the first place. It was my fault.”

“Bullshit,” says Kent. “You got hemmed in; it happens. I got checked; that happens, too. Injuries are part of hockey. I’d be off the ice for longer with a concussion.” And then, more gently, “I already said this to Hells, but it’s all right to be freaked out. We’ve got a team psychologist for a reason, Danno: go talk it through with her, or with whoever you trust to give you good advice. Nobody’s going to chirp you for it, okay?”

Danno stiffens defensively. “I’m fine, cap.”

Kent’s fingers twitch with karmic frustration. He bites back an urge to laugh at himself and tries a different tack. “You remember last season, when you wrenched your knee?”

“Yeah?”

“And you swore you’d be fine if you just rested up for a day, even though the trainer said you need to take at least a week, and then you fell the fuck over at morning skate and had to take ten days instead?”

Danno has the grace to blush. “Yes, cap?”

“This is like that,” says Kent, “but with your brain instead.” He fixes Danno with a stare and says, a little more raw than intended, “Trust me. I’ve been a fucking idiot about psych stuff for a long damn time. Ignoring it can fuck you up, and you do not want that. _I_ don’t want that. So check it out early this time.” And then, because Danno is Danno, “And for fuck’s sake, get Katzy to shave off his goddamn pornstache, will you? It’s bad enough during playoffs without having to look at it now. I’m _haunted_.”

Danno breaks into a smile at that – a real one, Kent hopes. “Will do, cap. And I’ll… I’ll think about the other thing.”

 _Baby steps_ , Kent thinks, and as much of himself as Danno. They exchange manly nods, and as Danno heads back into the hospital, Hells comes in to take his place, cheerfully hefting an Adidas bag in greeting.

“I brought you some clothes and stuff,” he says, setting the bag on the dresser. “And, um. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought you might be getting bored, so I grabbed the books with bookmarks from your bedside.”

“Thanks, Hells,” says Kent. He shouldn’t be surprised by the rookie’s consistent thoughtfulness – one of his best skills as a player is his uncanny awareness of everything happening on the ice – but having it directed at him like this is oddly touching. “I really appreciate it. How’s Kit this morning?”

Hells grins. “Still pissed that I’m not you. She stood on the counter and yelled at me while I got her food ready, then tried to sharpen her claws on my bag. It’s okay,” he adds, as Kent opens his mouth to apologise. “We always had cats at home. I’m used to it.”

“You should get one here,” Kent says. “If you want, I mean.”

Hells blinks, considering. “Huh,” he says, face brightening. “I could, couldn’t I? Like, maybe not while I’m still living with Swoops, but when I move out.”

“For sure. I can tell you about the place where I got Kit, if you like.”

Hells nods to himself, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks from Kent to the bag of books, and abruptly sits down in the visitor’s chair, his elbows braced on his knees. Talking more to the floor than Kent, he says, “Can I ask you something?”

Kent’s eyebrows raise at the topic shift. “Go ahead.”

“Okay.” Hells pauses, gathering himself. “So like, this isn’t a knock on you, but I’ve noticed you don’t seem to date much, or at all. Like we go out with the guys and stuff, but you don’t really pick up girls or whatever like Danno and Mads, and it’s just that, uh –” Kent’s pulse spikes sharply, “– I don’t really do that, either? Or want to? Like I mean,” Hells says quickly, pale cheeks flaming, “I still like women, but I don’t – it doesn’t work for me like that, just seeing someone and wanting to fuck them, like I want to get to know them first or it feels, I don’t know, it doesn’t feel _right_ , and I guess I was just, uh, wondering if you were maybe the same, and how you got the others to leave off chirping you about it if you are, because, like, I don’t want to make it worse or act like I can’t handle it, but I always feel really awkward about it, like maybe there’s something wrong with me? Um.”

He stops abruptly, and Kent, whose emotions have undergone a rapid shift from fear to relief to confused concern, feels a niggle of pertinent memory trying to surface. Something he’d heard at a party the first time he went to see Jack at Samwell, his manic bro friend with the moustache yelling loudly about heteronormative expectations and how sexuality was a spectrum, not a binary, and there was a word he used that’s almost on the tip of Kent’s tongue –

“Demisexual!” he says, triumphant. And then, at Hells’s startled look, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Hellier. It’s… you should probably Google it, I’m not the best at explaining this shit, but only wanting to be with people you already care about, not liking casual stuff, I’m pretty sure that’s demisexuality.”

Hells’s mouth falls open. Shakily, he says, “There’s a word for it?”

“Yeah,” says Kent, and feels his stomach twist at the look on Hells’s face. “Shit, Hells. You’ve really been feeling this bad about it?”

Hells stares at his hands. “Kind of? Like, Mads and Swoops and Katzy took me out last night to try and cheer me up, you know, and there was this nice-looking girl at the bar and they wouldn’t shut up about how I should go for it, and I just – I didn’t know what to do, you know? Like maybe I’d have talked to her if I’d been on my own, but they wanted me to take her home, and I guess Swoops finally noticed I wasn’t into it and changed the subject, but. Uh. It’s not like I can’t handle being chirped about other shit, but this feels different, I guess? And you said that I could talk to you, and I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Kent swallows hard, the moment balanced between them. “I’ll say something to the team. Not about you in particular,” he adds quickly, seeing Hells’s look of alarm, “but about, uh. Respecting boundaries, you know. Generally. Not crossing the line with chirps.” Hells relaxes at that, and Kent, feeling strangely lightheaded, adds, “I’m going to have to talk to everyone anyway, once I’m out of here. Might as well tell them everything at once.”

“Tell them what?” Hells asks.

Kent takes a shuddering breath. Smiles at his rookie, tense and terrified. “That I’m, uh. That I’m gay.”

Hells’s eyes go saucer-wide. “Oh, _shit_ ,” he breathes. “ _That’s_ why you never date? Or wait – do you date, and we just don’t know about it?”

“I don’t date.” Kent gulps. “I… hook up sometimes, but it’s never – I can’t – and I’m so fucking _sick_ of it, Hells, I can’t – even if everyone hates me, I need –” he shoves a hand through his hair, laughing jaggedly, “– fuck, I just need to not be messed up about it anymore, you know?”

Tentatively, Hells puts a hand on Kent’s shoulder and, when Kent accepts the contact, squeezes hard.

“I’ve got your back, cap,” he says, seriously. “Whatever you need.”

Kent doesn’t cry. He _doesn’t._ His eyes just get a little wet. “Thanks, Hells. I, that – it means a lot.”

Hells grins. “Same to you, cap.” He pulls his hand back and stands up, stretching. “I should probably go take a nap before the game tonight, but text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure,” says Kent, and watches at the rookie leaves, his heart absurdly lightened.

 

*

  

Afterwards, to settle himself and kill time before Day comes, Kent checks his messages. He ignores his Twitter notifications – there’s far too many to read them all, even if he wanted to risk exposure to the inevitable abuse of people happy he nearly died – but posts an update: _Still in hospital, healing well. Should be out soon! Thanks to my fans and @LVAcesOfficial for all their support._

With that done, he finally goes through and answers his texts, most of which are from former Aces or other hockey players he’s friendly with. He briefly considers checking his emails, but decides against it: anything urgent will be routed through Patrick or Tasha, and anything he wants to respond to personally can wait until he’s on his laptop. He briefly flips through the books Hells brought for him, but feels too jittery to concentrate on reading. It keeps hitting him at odd moments, the enormity of having come out to a teammate, random spikes of elation battling with residual paranoia that Hells was only pretending to be okay with it. He does his best to shove those thoughts down, but they keep on popping back up, and when Day finally knocks and enters, Kent’s pulse leaps as much in relief as anticipation.

“Hi,” says Day, smiling. He looks almost shy as he shuts the door, dressed today in a pair of charcoal chinos and a grey-green cowl neck shirt, the fitted sleeves rucked to his elbows. His hair is pulled back in a messy bun, loose tendrils falling around his face. He’s wearing his glasses, too, which only heightens the overall effect: he looks, Kent thinks, like the embodiment of a hot professor fantasy.

“Hi,” says Kent, mouth dry. He watches as Day sits down beside him, shamelessly hypnotised by the way the shirt fits across his pecs. “You, uh. You look good today.”

“I dressed up,” Day says, flushing. “How are you?”

“Better than I was,” says Kent. “I, uh. I came out to Hells this morning.”

Day’s startled smile is a thing of beauty. “I’m guessing it went well?”

“It did, I think.” Kent takes a breath. “I’m going to tell the whole team, once I’m out of here.”

Day reaches up and tangles their fingers together. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Kent laughs. “I’m not really good at half measures, I guess. All or nothing. I know people say you’re meant to wait six months after a traumatic event to make major life changes or whatever, but with this… it’s different, I think.” He drops his gaze and says, softly, “On the ice, there was a moment when I thought that dying would be okay. Easier than coming out, than living like this. And I was so –” he looks at Day, voice catching, “– god, I was so fucking terrified to feel like that, you know?”

“I know,” says Day. He grips Kent’s hand like a lifeline. “Remember I said I was outed?” Kent nods. “It was – it happened in high school. I was fifteen, and my friend was over to work on a joint English assignment. He didn’t have a laptop, so he was using my computer, and it’s not like I’d never let him borrow it before, but we were messing around instead of working and he ended up finding my porn folder.”

Kent winces in sympathy. “Oh, fuck.”

“Pretty much. He just started laughing, saying it was hilarious that I was a fucking – well. You know the word. And it hurt, I was totally freaking out, but he just kept laughing, and I figured that was better than him being angry or disgusted, so maybe it meant he wouldn’t tell anyone.” His lip curls. “He went home early and emailed our entire grade about it. I got beaten up twice before the teachers stepped in. Shit settled down eventually, but those first couple of weeks, the way I was feeling… if my family hadn’t accepted me, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”    

“They already knew?”

Day smiles crookedly. “No. I’d been trying to work up the courage to tell them, but when I came home bruised that first day, they asked what happened and it all spilled out. I swear, my sisters got so mad on my behalf, my dad was physically holding their shirts to stop them running out and kicking some ass.”

Kent laughs at that. He knows a little about Day’s family from their earlier conversations – Day’s the middle child of three, grew up in Maryland with an architect mother and sports journalist father – but not much beyond that. “What are they like now?”

“Elena is a professional photographer; she’s twenty-nine, lives in Portland with her fiancé. Zora is twenty-five, in her last year of law school at Penn State.” His face softens. “I wish we saw each other more, but we’re scattered all over the place. We try to do Christmas and Thanksgiving together, but Elena’s future in-laws live in Seattle and they want to see her, too, so it’s always up in the air. God only knows where they’re going to have the wedding, assuming they ever actually set a date.”    

Kent laughs. “I honestly can’t imagine what any of that’s like,” he says. “There were other kids at my second foster placement, but there was an age gap, you know. The other two fosters were little, three and five, and their bio son was nearly eighteen when I got there, about to head off to college. He played hockey, too, which is why I ended up with them, but –” he shrugs, “– we never really saw much of each other. I still get Christmas cards from his parents, but that’s about it.”

A silence falls, too laden to be companionable and too poignant to be tense. The two of them stare at their interlaced fingers, watching Day’s thumb move across Kent’s hand.

“Are we going to talk about this?” Day asks quietly, meeting his gaze at last.

Kent nods, an ache in his chest like his lungs are oversized.

“Okay,” says Day. He sounds a little breathless himself. “Okay. I’ll go first. So, uh. Okay. We, that is. Um. I, uh –”

“Maybe I should go first,” says Kent.

“Oh, thank god.” Day sighs in relief, eyes crinkling as he grins. “Sorry, I just – I had this whole speech planned out, and now I’m actually sitting here, I can’t remember a word of it.”

Kent huffs a laugh. “That’s okay. I think, uh. I think should probably say some stuff up front, anyway.” He looks down again, and when he speaks, his voice is faltering. “So like. I am really damaged. Which you kind of knew already, but I think if we, uh, if we’re going to try and… and date, or whatever, then you need to realise that I haven’t, before. Dated. Ever. And I’m probably going to suck at it, like I guarantee I’m going to freak the fuck out about some really basic shit at some point, and I want – I mean, I would _like_ to promise you that I’ll never be a total asshole about it, but my coping mechanisms at this point are basically just, like, slower and more creative ways of fucking myself up, and what I’m trying to say is that I’m going to, uh. I’m going to start going to therapy, when I’m out of here. So you don’t have to be the only one to deal with my shit, and because I just fucking need it.”

More quietly, he says, “Talking to Jack last night… we patched things up. I didn’t think we’d ever be able to do that, but he said some stuff that was really helpful, you know? About me, and us, and about relationships. But the big thing he said was that, as an NHL player, especially dating someone on the DL, you have to work to make sure your life doesn’t take over theirs – like, asking your partner for support is one thing, but you can’t just lean on them exclusively. And you, ever since I met you, even when I’m all fucked up, you’re always so good to me.” His voice cracks. “And maybe that’s a small thing to you. Like, not _small_ , but just obvious. The right thing to do, that anyone would know to do if they stopped and thought about it. But it’s not small to me, or obvious, and nobody else has ever bothered to try. And what really frightens me right now – or one of the things, anyway – is that you might think I only want to date you because my, my standards for how I’m treated are so low that I don’t, that I can’t actually distinguish between attraction and gratitude. That I feel like I owe you myself.”

He stops for a moment, shaking. Last night, Jack had put their conversation about Kent’s feelings for Day on speakerphone, so that Jack and Bitty could walk him through that particular question together. Bitty’s soft drawl had made a gentle counterpoint to Jack’s warm voice, and together they’d proved quite terrifyingly efficient at tearing through Kent’s many onion-layers of bullshit: Bitty because he had a sharp eye for emotional nuance, and Jack because he knew when Kent was bluffing. That Kent is even capable of verbalising this shit at all is entirely thanks to them, and assuming he doesn’t still fuck it all up, he’s going to send Jack the most embarrassingly Canadian thank-you present he can think of. Maybe a life-size plush moose, if such a thing exists, or a year’s supply of maple syrup.

Fortified by the memory, he takes a breath, looks Day in the eye and says, “I am grateful to you, Day. But that’s not why I want to date you. I want this because you make me laugh, even when I’m feeling like shit. I want this because you sent me chocolate from my cat, and because you like dumb cereal mascots and understand hockey and made me watch emotionally compromising dragon movies and care what kind of books I read, and because you’re just, you’re stupidly fucking beautiful, okay, and maybe that makes me shallow, but you are, you really are. I want this because you make me want to trust people, and because you make me want to try to get better.” He swallows hard, abruptly and acutely embarrassed. “And that was a lot, and I’m going to shut the fuck up now and let you talk, because I’m basically just assuming that you w–”

Day leans up and kisses him, his free hand cupping Kent’s cheek.

Electricity runs through Kent at the light press of lips; he grabs Day’s arm for balance, shifting to slot their mouths together. The kiss deepens, and Kent whimpers as Day’s hand slides gently into his hair, long fingers cradling his head. They pull back slightly, foreheads pressed together, hands still joined.

“Oh,” Kent whispers.

Day laughs softly. “Yeah.”

“Let me just –” Kent tugs forcefully at his blanket, pushing it aside and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed, experiencing a powerful surge of gratitude at no longer being attached to any equipment. He stands, heart pounding, tugging Day up out of the chair; standing, Day is two inches taller, leaning down instead of up as Kent reels him in again.

Their second kiss is nakedly hungry, Kent shuddering all over as he presses his body to Day’s. He ought to care that he’s wearing a fucking hospital gown, that his hair is a mess and he’s been too tired to shower since yesterday, but he doesn’t, too overwhelmed by the press of Day’s palm on the small of his back, the perfect fit of his mouth. Dropping Day’s hand, he arches up and twines both arms around his neck; Day makes a gorgeous noise and cups his face again, holding Kent like he’s something precious.

When they finally break apart, Kent is dizzy. He smirks at Day, wild and happy, and climbs back into bed only because he’s not entirely sure his legs are working. This time, Day sits on the edge of the mattress, flushed and gorgeous and _his_.

“I was going to say something responsible,” Day says. “About journalistic integrity and objective reporting despite familiarity with the subject, and how my editor wants to push back the interview to focus on your recovery now, assuming you’re okay with that – which you don’t have to be, by the way, I’m happy to argue the point – but I, uh. Yeah. That was.”

“Yeah,” says Kent. They’re both grinning stupidly, and it’s only the warning ache in his throat that keeps Kent from leaning forward to kiss him again.

Day rests a hand on Kent’s knee, stroking it through the blanket. Softly, he says, “It means a lot to me, what you said before, especially the stuff about not letting your career take over. I, uh. I’ve had some bad experiences before, with guys just… not taking me for granted, exactly, but assuming that my job was less important than theirs, or acting like it was unfair of me to expect to rely on them because their jobs were busier. And when I say that, I know what an NHL career entails, I’m not ever going to ask you to bow out of a game because I need help with my writing or whatever, I mean I just want, like, actual partnership.” His mouth twists, a mix of chagrin and humour that makes Kent want to trace his lips with a fingertip. “Like, okay. I dated this one guy, Jackson? He was a junior in a law firm, and he always made this massive deal about his work drinks, which happened like, twice a month, and how he couldn’t _possibly_ ever show up alone, and how it was really important that I get along with his boss, who was the kind of guy who liked be able to boast about all the liberal friends he had without actually _being_ liberal, presumably to try and offset the fact that he was an overbearing tool.”

Kent snorts with laughter. “Sounds fucking charming.”

“Right?” Day grins at him. “So I spent, like, six fucking months showing up to these awful parties come hell or high water, gritting my teeth whenever Jackson left me alone with his asshole boss, trying to get to know his colleagues or whatever. And then I got invited to a big industry party of my own, right? And I was still a pretty new name at the time, so I was really thrilled – it was black tie, open bar, full of people I wanted to meet, the works. Only thing was, it was on the same night as one of Jackson’s work things, which he refused to skip.”

Kent’s mouth falls open. “Fucking _seriously_?”

“Oh yeah. And I told him how important it was to me, and he was like, _well,_ _okay, I guess I can swing by work first and then meet you there afterwards_ – which was not a completely terrible compromise, because I knew my thing would go all night and his drinks usually finished around eight. But there was a formal, sit-down dinner at my event that started at eight, and you had to RSVP for it in advance. So I checked it with him, made sure he’d have enough time to get from A to B, which he did, and he swore he’d show up by quarter to.”

“Let me guess,” Kent says. “He was late?”

“Late, I might have forgiven,” Day says wryly. “He didn’t show up at all. Didn’t call, didn’t text, and I had to sit through this packed dinner with an empty seat beside me, pretending he’d had a work emergency and couldn’t get away.” Day makes a face. “Turns out, he never went to his drinks at all – he chickened out of showing up alone, went home to take a nap instead of coming early and slept through his alarm. Which I still, maybe, _might_ have understood – he was working really long hours – except that he told me he woke up at, like, eight fifteen, but –” Day makes sarcastic finger-quotes, “– ‘didn’t want to make a scene’ by coming late or texting to explain. So he just stayed home the whole night instead.” 

“The _fuck_?” says Kent, outraged. “What a fucking asshole! Tell me you dumped him. Tell me you, like, keyed his car or spray-painted all his suits pink or some shit.”

Day laughs. “Oh, I dumped him, but I was pretty broken up about the whole thing. So Zora glitterbombed him on my behalf.”

“Glitterbombed?”

“She mailed him a giant envelope full of glitter. Addressed it to him at work, and when he opened it, the glitter exploded all over him. One of his coworkers send me a photo – apparently, she got him right before a big meeting, and he had to go into negotiation covered in sparkles. His boss was _not_ impressed.”

Kent doubles over, cackling. “Oh my god, that is _priceless_. Your sister is fucking badass.”

“Honestly, if I wasn’t related to her, I’d be terrified. She’s barely 5’4, but she rocks these six-inch stiletto heels like they’re nothing. She can _run_ in them. One time a guy in flip-flops harassed her at the bus stop, and she stomped down on his instep so hard, she basically impaled his foot on her shoe.”

“Holy _shit_.”

“Right?”

“Remind me never to piss her off,” Kent says fervently. “Although, in fairness, if I ever treated you like that, I’d definitely deserve it.” Hesitantly, he adds, “You’ll tell me, right? If I’m ever not doing enough for you?”

“I’ll tell you,” Day says softly, and leans in to kiss Kent’s cheek. “But somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEMISEXUAL HELLLLLLLLS


	7. Coming Home, Stepping Out

Kent leaves hospital on Monday afternoon with a thick pink scar on his throat and a burning desire to see Kit. The Aces are gearing up for a game, so it’s Day who gets Kent’s keys from Hells, collects his Porsche from where it’s been since the Panthers game and comes to drive him home. Side by side, they walk past the straggle of paps vying to get a shot of Kent on his way to the parking lot, a few of whom yell out questions. Day glares at the crowd, indignant, while Kent smiles broadly behind his sunglasses and flips them all off with both hands, rendering any photos they take unusable.

By the time they reach Kent’s car, they’re alone again. Day hesitates, offering Kent the keys.

“Do you want to take it from here?”

Kent considers, then shakes his head. “Nah, you’re good. I’m still taking pain medication, and I’d rather not drive if I don’t have to. Besides,” he adds, grinning, “you’ve already got the seat set up for your long-ass legs.”

“True,” Day says, and lets himself in on the driver’s side.

Kent slings his bag in the trunk – it’s a two-seater car, and the footwell isn’t exactly spacious – then takes his seat, savouring the novelty of riding shotgun in his own car. Day waits until he’s buckled in, then turns the ignition, easing them out of the lot.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a moment. “For the paps out front. They’re not exactly the cream of journalistic integrity.”

Kent shrugs. “I’m used to it. A few of them are assholes, sure, but it comes with the territory.”

“It shouldn’t have to, though.”

“If wishes were free shots at goal, I’d have won more than one Stanley Cup.”

“You’ll do that anyway, sooner or later,” Day says. “Even without the free shots.”

Kent flushes all over, staring at Day, who raises an eyebrow and grins at his reaction. “Oh, what – like you don’t know you’re awesome?”

“Of course I’m awesome,” Kent says, reflexively cocky. And then, because he’s still blushing, “It’s just, uh. Kinda hot hearing you say so.”

Day gives him a quick once-over, his grin turning into a smirk. “Really,” he drawls.

Kent hunches down in his seat, cheeks burning. “Shut the fuck up and drive, Navarro. Eyes on the road.”

Day laughs.

 

*

 

Kent is barely through the door when Kit rushes him, meowing frantically. Something twists in his chest; he scoops her up, hugging her fluffy body as she sinks her claws in his shoulder, rubbing her face so hard against his sunglasses that they skew off his nose and fall.

“Easy, easy!” Kent laughs. “Hey there, princess. I missed you, too.” He tosses his bag to the floor, adjusts his grip on Kit. She purrs like an engine, giving his scar a single disapproving sniff before licking his cheek, over and over.

“Someone’s happy to see you,” Day says, shutting the door behind them.

“And why shouldn’t she be, huh?” Grinning stupidly, Kent fishes his phone from his pocket and throws it to Day, who catches it one-handed. “Can you take some reunion shots? I wanna Insta this shit.”

“Sure,” says Day – and then, weirdly, proffers the phone to Kent again with the lockscreen showing.

Kent blinks at him. “You forget the passcode?”

Day startles. “You didn’t change it after I called Jack for you?”

“No?”

“Oh.” He rubs his neck, sheepishly. “I just assumed you would.”

Kent snorts. “Why bother? If you were going to be a bag of dicks and snoop, you would’ve done it the first time, and if you didn’t, then it doesn’t matter.”

“Fair enough,” Day says, and unlocks Kent’s phone, pulling up the camera. “Do you want stills or video?”

In the end, Kent uploads one of each: a black and white photo of him hugging Kit, his face in her fur, captioned _I missed my girl #princesskit #kitpurrson #happytobehome_ , and a twelve-second video of her loving on him. In the video, he’s smiling, Kit purring loudly as she rubs her face on his face, while Day exclaims “She’s so loud!” in the background. Their mutual laughter is audible, and the clip ends with Kent saying, “That’s because she loves me.” He tags it the same as the photo and puts his phone aside as the notifications start coming in. It’s easier to keep track of Instagram comments than Twitter replies, he’s found; he’ll have look through them later.

Eventually, Kent makes his way to the couch and sits, where Kit curls up on his lap in a proprietary loaf. Kent strokes her head, unable to begrudge her the contact, and watches, suddenly nervous, as Day comes to sit beside him. Their legs press together, a line of warmth, and Kent doesn’t know what to do.

“Is this okay?” Day asks.

“Yeah,” Kent breathes. “Yeah, I just – I have no idea what’s meant to happen next.”

Day leans in and kisses Kent’s cheek, smoothing a lock of hair back behind his ear. “You said you wanted to go to the game tonight?”

“Yeah, but that’s not for hours.” His throat tightens, abruptly terrified. “If you, uh. If you want, we can – you can, with me –”

“Kent.” Day squeezes his hand, brown eyes impossibly soft. “I’m not going to force you into sex. Not now, not ever. And as attractive as I find you, I’m not here because of your body. You don’t have to try and, and give me yourself like that just to make me stay. I’m already here for you, because of you. Anything else is just a bonus.”

Sick embarrassment washes through Kent. He stares at the floor, fighting the urge to say something sharp and hurtful to Day that’s really about himself – _you’ve just got_ _low standards, you don’t know what the fuck to do with a guy like this_. He bits his lip until the urge passes and says instead, “I fucking hate that I just – that this is so _simple_ , and I still can’t fucking _do_ it right.”

“ _Cariño_ , it’s never simple, and even if it was, you’ve never done it before. You’re allowed to adjust.”

Kent jerks his head up, blushing; he’s spent enough time with Javvy’s family to know what _cariño_ means. Day’s not wearing his glasses today, and without quite meaning to, Kent reaches out to trace the handsome lines of his face, touching lightly at forehead and cheek and jaw. Day’s lips part, and Kent runs a fingertip across them, shivering as Day takes hold of his wrist and kisses the heart of his palm.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Day asks.

“Sure,” says Kent. “Yeah, we can – yeah.” He grabs the remote off the coffee table and hands it to Day, who starts to bring up Netflix. “Just no more fucking sad dragon movies, okay?”

Day’s lips twitch. “How about _The Mighty Ducks,_ then?”

Kent hits him with a pillow.

 

*

 

In the end, they settle on watching _Twister_ , which is one of Kent’s go-to comfort action movies. Day puts an arm around his shoulder, and Kent curls into the crook of it, eventually shifting close enough that Kit gets up and relocates to her cat tree. Kent draws patterns on Day’s knee with a fingertip, and Day leans over more than once to kiss his temple, or murmur a joke in Kent’s ear, and by the time the film ends, Kent feels stupidly relaxed. He imagines what it might be like to ignore the game and stay home instead, but the Aces know he was meant to be discharged today, and if he doesn’t show up, they might think something’s wrong.

Sighing, Kent disentangles himself from Day and heads to the shower, washing off the scent and feel of the hospital. His scar is tender to the touch, but otherwise doesn’t hurt, though that may just be the lingering after-effects of his medication.

Kent doesn’t think about what it would be like to call Day into the shower with him. _Later_ , he tells himself, and pointedly doesn’t think about how soon (or not) that might actually be.

Afterwards, he shaves more carefully than he ever has in his life, grateful that the scar is low enough on his neck not to count as an ongoing hazard, and changes into his comfiest pair of jeans, an Aces jersey worn soft and thin with countless washings, and a thick, warm jacket. He fusses briefly with his hair, deciding for once against his trademark snapback – he’s going to end up on camera, inevitably; he might as well look good – and tries to get his cowlick under control with a bit of product.

When he comes back out to the lounge room, Day is lying sprawled on the floor with Kit on his chest, laughing as she licks his hair. Hearing Kent enter, Day lifts his head from the carpet and grins at him over Kit’s fluffy head.

“I think she’s trying to groom me,” he says.

Kent struggles to reply, the sight of Day playing with Kit short-circuiting the parts of his brain responsible for speech and, apparently, breathing. It must show on his face; Day’s smile softens as he sets Kit gently aside, comes to his feet and walks over. He opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t get the chance: Kent grabs him by the front of the shirt and kisses him, deep and desperate. Day makes a shocked noise and kisses back, his hands coming up to cup Kent’s face, while Kent’s grip on Day migrates to his hips, tugging him even closer. His hands wander, sliding up under the hem of Day’s shirt, exploring the feel of soft skin over hard muscle. It’s the best sort of surprise: for all that Day looks good in his clothes, he’s much more well-defined than Kent was expecting. He breaks the kiss, breathless, eyes wide with startled inquiry.

Day grins at him, stroking his cheek. “I rock climb,” he says. “And working out clears my head.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say to that, and so responds by kissing him again. He’s astonished by how much he likes it; how much it turns him on. But then, he supposes, he’s only ever done it before as the quickest, most perfunctory form of foreplay. Kissing for its own sake, as an indulgence, as a different sort of intimacy, is completely outside his experience. Even with Jack, everything was always so frenzied with hormones and secrecy that kissing was only ever an opening gambit. But even when he ends up pressed against the kitchen bench, hard and gasping as he practically rides Day’s thigh, the knowledge that they don’t have to do any more than this is a thousand times more arousing than feeling obligated to keep going.

“Fuck,” Kent gasps, shivering as Day cradles his head and places a single, gentle kiss on his scar. “We’re going to be late.”

“Only to warmups,” Day says, stepping back. “You’ll still see them all after the game.”

“Yeah,” says Kent. And then, hesitantly, “Would you, uh. Would you come in with me? When I talk to them?”

“Of course,” says Day, grabbing the keys from the counter. “Do you want me to drive again?”

“Please,” says Kent. His heart is racing, and it’s a moment before he can shake his Day-induced daze sufficiently to pull out his phone and text the team group chat, telling them all he’s about to head in. The replies start coming in instantly – the guys must still be in the locker room – and Kent smiles. They’d asked if he wanted to sit out on the bench with them, but Kent had declined, partly because he doesn’t want to distract them from playing their best, but mostly because he’s not going to get too many opportunities to sit in the stands with Day while the Aces are playing. Instead, they’ll both be in the family section, and Kent realises with a sudden pang that he won’t be able to lean into Day like he had on the couch, or kiss him, or hold his hand. Which… Kent doesn’t know how to process wanting that sort of public intimacy, let alone feeling betrayed that he can’t actually have it. He’s Kent Fucking Parson, not some fourteen-year-old with his first crush – except that, in some ways, he really is, because Kent at fourteen was still being abused by the monster next door and worrying what he’d done wrong, that Gary was losing interest as he aged.

It’s a crushing thought, one that knocks the wind right out of him. He shuts his eyes, struggling to get his whirling thoughts under control.

“Kent, _cariño_? Are you all right?”

Kent nods reflexively. Forces himself to shake his head.

“Can I touch you?”

“Please,” Kent rasps, and is promptly enveloped in a hug. He clings to Day, face pressed against his soft flannel shirt, and breathes in deep, relaxing as Day strokes his back. The physical contact anchors him, and when he straightens up again, he manages a watery smile. “I really fucking need therapy,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, I swear. I’m getting _on_ that shit.”

Day kisses his forehead. “I’ll help you, if you like.”

“You already are,” says Kent, and twines their fingers together.

 

*

 

Watching the Aces play without him proves to be an experience equal parts surreal and bittersweet. It’s not like Kent’s never gone to a hockey game since he joined the NHL; it’s just bizarre to see his boys playing and not be able to immediately congratulate them on a sweet connecting pass or tell Hells to watch his opposite number. Even so, there’s something amazing about having Day right there next to him, cheering loudly whenever the Aces score and chuckling whenever Kent starts swearing about the Sharks.

And then, of course, there’s the cameras, which lock onto Kent practically the moment he takes his seat. His face appears on the big screen, Day beside him, and even though he’d expected it, there’s still a moment of shock at seeing himself in the crowd instead of on the bench. He smiles and waves, of course, and the answering cheer that goes through the stadium – the Aces’ home crowd – is so loud, he practically feels the vibrations in his chest.

Spurred on by the fans, the Aces play an amazing game and win 2-1, despite the Sharks’ strong defence. Kent leaps to his feet and yells when the final buzzer goes, a broad smile on his face.

As he makes his way to the locker room, Kent has to physically stop himself from reaching for Day’s hand. He bumps their shoulders together instead, flying high on a mix of adrenaline at the win and nerves about seeing his teammates, and is therefore caught off guard when a local TV reporter, clearly having anticipated his destination, corrals him in the hallway, points a live mic towards his face and asks how he’s feeling now.

Kent stops walking and forces a media smile. Day steps neatly aside, giving him the spotlight, and somehow Kent manages a coherent reply about how proud he is of the Aces, how well they all played against the Sharks and how much he’s looking forward to being back on the ice. He finishes by saying that he’s going to see them now – a clear cue to let him get on with it – but instead, the reporter gestures for the cameraman to swing around, putting Day in shot beside Kent, and asks, “A lot of people in the media box were wondering who your friend here is. You’ve been seen together a few times recently, including leaving the hospital earlier today. Any comment?”

Kent doesn’t so much freeze as boil. He feels his smile sharpen. “Yeah,” he says. “I just had my throat cut open on live TV. I think I’m allowed to want company.”

The interviewer visibly startles; Day looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“So you are friends, then?” the reporter asks, somewhat gamely.

Kent raises an eyebrow. “You think I’d come my first game back with someone I hate?”

“I meant –”

“I know exactly what you meant,” says Kent, still smiling. “You know that thing parents say to their kids, about how they shouldn’t be having sex if they’re too embarrassed to actually say the word? I think the same rule should apply to journalists who ask loaded questions about celebrity relationships. If you’re too embarrassed to straight-up ask if I’m dating a guy – pun intended – you shouldn’t be fishing for me to out myself.” And with that, he waves at the camera and walks off before the reporter can say anything, Day striding along beside him.

They make it safely around the next bend before Day lets out a cackle. “Fucking hell, Kent. That was _savage_.” He lowers his voice, his mouth to Kent’s ear, and murmurs, “Just so you know, I’m _very_ attracted to you right now.”

Kent snorts with laughter. “Don’t fucking tempt me. They’d probably show up again with the camera running.”

“Are you okay, though?”

Kent groans. “I think so? God, that went out live, my agent is going to fucking _murder_ me.”

“She’d better not. That guy was way out of line, and you were amazing.”

Kent grins despite himself, smacking Day lightly in the chest. “I blame you for this, you know.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“You’re a bad influence! A week in your company, and I’ve completely forgotten how to pretend to be heterosexual.”

Day cracks up. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good,” says Kent, grinning. “It kind of is.”

He starts walking again, an unnamed feeling bubbling in his chest. It’s so hard to care anymore what strangers think of him, because nothing they say could ever be worse than the way he’s treated himself, but Christ, what’s his _team_ going to think?

The question is still unanswered when they enter the locker room, the bang of the door announcing their arrival. Everyone looks up, and there’s a split-second pause before they all starts cheering: Kent is mobbed in moments, Day stepping aside as the Aces crowd in, hugging and laughing and slapping his back like crazy.

“Speech!” yells Katzy, and the cry gets taken up by all of them. “Speech, speech speech!”

“All right, all right!” Kent flaps a hand, grinning as he’s manhandled up onto a bench, the better to address them all.

“Now you almost right height for hockey player, cap!” Yaks chirps, to general amusement. Kent flips him off, and feels his stomach twist at thought of what’s about to happen.

From where he stands at the back of the room, Day catches his eye and smiles.

“You guys were amazing out there tonight,” Kent says, after a moment. “I’m really proud of all of you, and I can’t wait to be back on the ice.” Loud cheering; Kent waves a hand for quiet, and gets it a second later. “That being said, there’s a bit of serious stuff I need to say about what happened last week, and I’d appreciate it if you’ll all bear with me.”

Total silence falls; an unnatural thing in any post-victory locker room. Kent looks out at the Aces, feeling his pulse in his scar.

“Right. So. First up, I want to make a general point as captain that, while chirping is a fine and noble hockey tradition, there’s some lines it shouldn’t cross. You don’t talk shit about people’s kids or pets or partners, you don’t push personal boundaries –” he sneaks a quick glance at Hells; the rookie’s chin lifts in acknowledgement, “– and you don’t kick a teammate when he’s down, whatever that means in context. I don’t think anyone here particularly feels like joking about what happened last week – not yet, anyway –” there’s a brief, reassuring laugh at that, “– but just to be crystal clear, how anyone reacted either during the game or after it is off the table for chirping. You assholes got that?”

He smiles to take the sting out of it, and the Aces chorus back, “Yeah, cap!” as proudly as any fourth-grade class that Kent has ever visited.

“Good,” he says. “Because, point two, what happened against the Panthers was fucking scary, and not just for me. Every game, we all accept there’s a chance we might get injured, but that doesn’t mean it’s not ugly when it happens. I know we all like to pretend that we’re invincible, but the fact is, we’re not, and seeing something like that happen… I just want to make it clear that if anyone wants to talk to me about it, or if you feel like going to Mary –” the team psychologist, “– then you should. Hockey’s a game you play with your brain as well as your body, and if either of those things gets banged up, there’s no shame in getting it looked at. Speaking personally, I’ve been a fucking dumbass about that stuff in the past, and if there’s one thing nearly dying is good for, it’s making you realise all the shit you’ve done wrong in your life, and how much you want to do better. Which brings me to my third and final point.”

He pauses, drawing a shaky breath, acutely aware of everyone in the room: his team, their coach, the GM and, still there in the background, Day.

“Ever since I came to Vegas, the Aces have been my family – maybe the only real one I’ve ever had.” Kent swallows hard, unable to keep his voice from shaking. “Which is why it’s so hard to say this, knowing it might… change the way some of you feel about me, or think of me as captain. But I’m just, I’m so damn tired of lying to everyone, to all the people I care about, and after last week, it’s clear to me that I can’t – I just can’t live like that anymore. It’s not good for me, and long-term, I don’t think it’s good for the team, or the sport, or anyone, really. So, uh. The truth is, I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. I’m not ashamed of it, and I want to come out – publicly, I mean, not just to you guys. And I… I really hope that’s something you’re all okay with.”

A shocked silence falls in the wake of this pronouncement. Kent steps down from the bench and stares around the locker room, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

“Holy fuck, Parser,” says Katzy, wide-eyed. “You’re serious?”

Kent smiles weakly. “It’d be a pretty shitty joke if I wasn’t.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Javvy says. Kent flinches, hurt welling up in his chest until Javvy makes a pained noise and says, “Aw, fuck, Parser, not like that –” and ropes him into a one-armed hug, his thick fingers gripping Kent’s shoulder. “We’ve got your back. We’ve _always_ got your back, the same as you’ve got ours.” He pitches his voice for the whole room to hear it. “Right?”

“Right!” comes the chorused reply, and into the tiny silence that follows, Hells says, loud and carrying, “And anyone who says otherwise can fight me!”

“No,” rumbles Yaks, stepping up to his side, “they fighting _us_. You terrible fighter, Hells. I see you drop gloves in Bruins game, it make me cry. But maybe with Russian help, you not so bad.” He lifts his chin, grins crookedly at Kent, and says, “I fight for captain. Is what is hockey meaning, yes?”

“Damn fuckin’ right,” growls Racker, and suddenly they’re all cheering again, a shoving, boisterous melee as everyone crowds in. Javvy has no sooner let him go than Katzy’s taking his place, murmuring a gruff, “I’m proud of you, kid,” as he slaps Kent’s back, and Kent has to force himself to laugh, because it’s that or cry.

It’s not perfect – Mads and Danno are visibly shellshocked, while their coach looks like he’s swallowed a lemon – but it’s so much better than anything Kent’s ever let himself hope for that he can’t stop grinning anyway. Maybe it’s just that he nearly died, such that having a famously gay captain temporarily looks like a better alternative to having a famously dead one, and maybe it’s just that they haven’t all processed the implications yet, but he knows that Katzy and Javvy, Yaks and Hells weren’t faking their acceptance of him; that Swoops and Petty and Racker, who take turns ruffling his hair into spikes, aren’t suddenly going to turn vicious. And as much as Kent cares for all the Aces, he’s relieved beyond belief to realise that those seven are the ones whose opinions matter the most to him: the guys he’s really thinking of when he calls the Aces family. His family _accepts him_ , and knowing that is what gives him the courage to push through the crowd and over to Day, who straightens up and greets him with an impossibly blinding smile.

“You’re really something else, _cariño_ ,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” Kent says, and pulls him in for the bravest kiss of his life.

“GET IT, PARSER!” Javvy hoots, and Kent breaks away with a muffled laugh, his face impossibly red.

“FINE!” Racker yells out, audibly gleeful. “Kissing in the locker room is a hundred bucks, cap!”

Kent looks slowly from Day to Racker, feigning consideration. And then, with exaggerated care, he takes his wallet out of his pocket, pulls out every single note, and tosses easily six hundred bucks on the floor.

“Put it on my tab,” he says, and kisses Day to the sound of applause and catcalls.             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 3/4/17 - Have changed miel to cariño on the basis of reader feedback. Thanks for the correction, guys! :)


	8. The Sweetest Sting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: outing, homophobic slurs.

Kent and Day are no sooner settled at home on the couch than Kent’s phone starts ringing. He picks it up, intending to turn the damn thing off, but hesitates when he sees it’s Jack. He shoots a questioning look at Day, who grins and says, “Go ahead.”

Kent picks up. “Zimms?”

“Kenny!” Jack says. “Do you mind if I put you on speaker with Bits?”

“Only if I can do the same with Day.”

“ _Ouais_ ,” says Jack, followed by a mutual pause as they do so. Then:

“Hi, y’all!”

 _Bitty_ , Kent mouths to Day, who nods and says, “Ah, hello.”

“We saw what happened after the game, when that reporter cornered you,” Jack says warmly. “You really let him have it, eh?”

“Dude was an asshat,” Kent says, grinning.

“You’ve gone viral!” Bitty exclaims. “Twitter is beside itself; I’ve already seen it turned into a meme. You might want to give your PR person down there a heads up – the rate things are going, you’re going to be asked for a follow-up comment by morning.”

“Seriously?”

“Kenny,” says Jack, “you basically dared the media to ask, point blank, about your sexuality. Of _course_ they’re going to follow up. And I – we – just wanted to let you know that, whatever you do next, you’ve got our complete support.”

“I came out to my team,” Kent blurts. “Right afterwards, I mean. I’d been planning to do it anyway, but they were all still in the locker room when it happened, they hadn’t seen the interview, though they’re probably seeing it now.” He runs a hand through his hair and huffs. “Shit, huh?”

“You don’t have to come out publicly yet,” says Day. “Don’t let them rush you. If somebody does ask, you can point out that it’s an inappropriate question no matter how they ask it, and that the point of correcting that other guy was to make him admit what he was actually doing, not to encourage more people to do it overtly.”

Bitty makes an approving noise. “Oh, I _like_ you.”

“How did your team take it?” Jack asks.

“Honestly? About 50/50, I think. But the guys who matter most, they were – they were really great about it.” He laughs. “Racker fined me for kissing Day in the locker room.”

 “Not only that,” says Day, grinning, “but he basically threw his wallet at the guy, said _put it on my tab_ , and kept going. I may have swooned.”

Jack laughs, a rare, startled bark of approval, while Bitty says, delighted, “You did not!”

“I did,” says Kent, smiling at Day. “It was worth it.”

The four of them chat a bit more – Jack is out to his GM and some of the Falconers, as well as their old Samwell teammates – and in the process, Bitty and Day somehow end up swapping numbers, which Kent fervently hopes turns out to be a good thing. By the time they all finally say goodnight, he’s feeling almost relaxed. Without speaking, he turns his phone off completely before anyone else can call and lies back in Day’s arms, the two of them stretching out across the couch, legs tangled. Sensing a cuddle opportunity, Kit appears and leaps up beside them, walking along Day’s thigh and hopping into the narrow space behind the crooks of his knees.

“They seem nice,” says Day, wrapping his arms around Kent’s torso. “I’m glad you made up with Jack.”

“I wouldn’t have, without you.”

“Not right now, maybe. But I think you would’ve eventually.”

“I don’t,” Kent says softly. He shifts, curling so that his face is tucked against Day’s neck. “But it’s… it means something, that you do.”

Day doesn’t reply to that; just strokes his fingers through Kent’s hair, a gentle, soothing touch. Kent shuts his eyes, savouring the contact. His thoughts drift, a pleasantly static calm that takes him out of himself, obliterating his worries about tomorrow and the fallout from his actions.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but even in a private bed, hospitals aren’t restful places: the lights never really go all the way off, there’s always people coming in to feed or check on you, and the plastic mattresses never feel quite right. Throw in an emotionally draining evening, and Kent crashes as hard as he ever has while jetlagged after a game.

The next thing he knows, the room is dark and Day is lifting him in a bridal carry, Kent’s head lolling against his chest.

“Timezzit?” Kent slurs.

“A little after two. Kit stood on my head and woke me up.”

“Nnf.”

“It’s okay, _cariño_. I got you.”

In the deep recesses of Kent’s hindbrain, something about the moment pings as significant, but he’s warm and tired and happy, so he files it away for later. “Stay?” he asks instead, as Day carries him to bed.

Gently, Day sets him down, the covers already pulled back. “Sure,” he says. “Just let me grab a pillow for the couch.”

Kent frowns, blinking stickily in the darkness. “Not on the couch. With me.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’re warm,” Kent says, tugging feebly at his shirt. “And you have – hands. For awake things.” He gestures at his clothes with a tired hand. “Help?”

“Okay,” says Day, softly. Kent hears him approach, sighing a little in relief as Day helps him out of his things. There’s a moment’s hesitation when he gets Kent down to his boxers, but when he pulls his hand away, Kent lifts his hips again and mumbles, “Everything.”

“ _Dios_ ,” Day says, faintly.

His touch is feather-light, and goes nowhere that Kent doesn’t want it.

Naked, Kent hauls the covers over himself, patting the space beside him. “Now you.”

There’s a rustle of clothes as Day undresses, followed by the mattress dipping as he slips into the empty space. Kent burrows back towards him, frowning a little at the realisation that Day’s still wearing his briefs. Almost, he complains, but then Day puts an arm around him, tucking Kent firmly against his chest, and every objection melts away like mist.

“Warm,” Kent murmurs happily.

He sleeps.

 

*

 

Kent wakes slowly, warmed by the sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window. He makes a noise and stretches, shoving his face in the pillow. Kent’s daily routine is ruled by alarms, but as his phone is yet to go off, it means he can go back to sleep. He luxuriates in the feeling of being well-rested, then frowns, confused, when his foot bumps into a bigger-than-Kit-sized lump beneath the blankets. Turning his head, he cracks open an eye and realises he’s not alone.

_Day._

As the night before comes back to Kent, his heart starts to pound like crazy. He looks at Day, his handsome face now lax with sleep; Day, who didn’t undress himself fully, and touched Kent only as he wished to be touched – for warmth, for comfort – without once taking advantage of his pliant, needy state to push for something more. Kent feels his throat close up; he doesn’t know if he wants to cry or laugh. In daylight, giving preference to rationality over old paranoia, Kent isn’t surprised that Day treated him chivalrously. What’s astonishing is that, woken suddenly and at his most vulnerable, Kent had implicitly trusted him to do just that.

The thought is abruptly overwhelming. Kent sits up, putting his back to the headboard, knees drawn up to his chin. Arms wrapped tight around his shins, he lowers his head and tries to breathe, shaking violently against the confines of his body.

“Kent?”

Day’s voice is sleepy. Kent doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he can.

“Kent? What are you – oh.” Day’s voice is strained; Kent feels the mattress shudder as he lurches upright. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, I should’ve stayed on the couch, I should’ve thought – do you want me to go? I’ll go, I’ll go right now, I –”

Kent blindly flings out a hand and grabs Day’s bicep.

“Stay,” he chokes out. “God, please stay.”

“Okay.” Day exhales, long and slow. “Okay, _cariño_. Whatever you want.” He hesitates, then asks, just as he did the last time Kent freaked out, “Can I touch you?”

Kent nods hard against his knees; Day makes a low, wounded noise of relief, putting an arm around Kent’s shoulders. Kent presses into him, and between one moment and the next he lets Day pull him back under the covers, wrapped up warm against his chest, one hand on his back and the other in his hair. Kent shakes and shakes, and Day murmurs to him softly in Spanish. Kent understands about one word in ten, but Day’s voice is liquid and soothing, and steadily Kent begins to settle. His breathing deepens, slows, and only when he eases up his death-grip on him does Day finally fall silent.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Kent struggles internally, wishing he trusted himself to look at Day. Instead, he takes a shuddering breath and says, “I haven’t shared a bed since him. Not once. Not even with Jack. Everyone I fucked, I always left afterwards, even before I understood why staying scared me.”

Day’s hold on him tightens. Kent swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep going.

“I never… I couldn’t trust anyone not to, to do something while I was asleep. Even sharing a room on roadies, I always used to panic a little. And at the hospital, having people come in to check on me during the night, a part of me never really relaxed, not all the way.” He shuts his eyes, aware that Day is holding his breath. “But I fell asleep on you. And when you woke me up, brought me in here, I never once – I _never_ _once_ thought I was anything but safe. And that’s a thing I didn’t know I could have.”

“It was… I did the right thing, staying?”

The uncertainty in Day’s voice undoes something in Kent. He levers himself up on an elbow, resting his other hand tenderly against Day’s cheek.

“You did. You did everything right.” He leans in, pressing their foreheads together. “You asked what I wanted. You didn’t push, didn’t argue. You saw I was out of it, so you set a boundary I was too tired to ask for. And I just –” he kisses Day’s temple, “– I need you to know what that means to me.” Day’s eyes flutter closed, so Kent kisses them, too, a light press against each lid. He kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and brushes their lips together.

Day makes a noise and reaches for him, kissing back. Kent shifts, sprawling himself along the warm, muscled length of Day’s body, reaching back to tug the blankets back up over his shoulders. Day chuckles into his mouth at this, and Kent pouts, leaning down to kiss beneath his jaw.

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I hate being cold.”

The cackle becomes a belly laugh. “You play _ice hockey_.”

“In layers of armour! Indoors! In _Nevada_!”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Day grins, running his hands theatrically up and down Kent’s forearms. “I’ll keep you warm, _cariño_.”

Kent flushes all over at the endearment. Ducking his head, he puts his mouth to Day’s pulse-point and sucks an experimental hickey, teeth grazing the skin. Day goes rigid under him, shuddering out a gasp in response. Kent’s hair stands on end. He inhales sharply and does it again, a fraction lower than before, and doesn’t miss the way Day bares his throat. They’re both breathing loudly, Kent’s cock hard against Day’s hip, Day equally hard in his briefs. Scarcely conscious of what he’s doing, Kent finds Day’s hands and pins them slowly over his head, their fingers twined together. Day moans, his eyes blown wide, as Kent shifts his hips and rocks against him, nipping his way down his throat to the hollow above his collarbone.

“ _Dios_ ,” Day breathes. “My god, Kent –”

“Can I have you?” Kent doesn’t recognise his own voice; the words come out tender and wrecked and trembling all at once. He offers Day a necklace of kisses, some gentle, some biting, nose brushing against the bob of Day’s throat as he swallows. “Trust me? Please?”

“Have me,” Day chokes out, and Kent kisses him deeply, his pulse like a hummingbird’s panic. He kisses Day, and kisses him, and works their hips together, pinning Day down the way he’s never pinned anyone; has only ever been pinned, and never like this, so trustingly, _never_. He burns with the freedom of it, with the need to make it good. He pulls Day’s hands together, holds them crossed at the wrists with one of his own; Day whimpers, pushing up against him without fighting the hold, and Kent kisses the sound from his mouth as he gets a hand between them, tugs Day’s briefs away and grips them hot together. Day swears and arches his back, and Kent swallows the sound. They’re both slick-tipped, sliding breathless in the slip of his palm. Kent ruts down as Day ruts up, over and over, and finally comes with Day’s forehead pressed to his, Day shuddering after him a heartbeat later.

Kent lifts his hands – one sticky, one not – only for Day to pull the former to his mouth, looking Kent in the eye as he slowly licks it clean. All the air goes out of Kent at the sight. He sinks the fingers of his free hand into Day’s hair and strokes the curve of his head, though which of them he’s anchoring with the gesture, he doesn’t know.

“Jesus fuck,” he says softly, when his thumb pops free of Day’s mouth. He collapses forward, pillowing himself on Day’s chest, face burrowed into the crook of his now-marked neck. Day’s arms come up around him, and for a minute or more, they lie like that in silence, sweat-rimed and sated.

“We should shower,” Day murmurs eventually, his voice warm in Kent’s ear.

Kent’s heart trips again. “Together?”

“If you like.” Day hesitates. “Or I can wait –”

“No,” says Kent. “Together.”

As short as the journey from the bed to the ensuite bathroom is, Kent spends it braced for a panic that never comes. That he spends much of his professional life showering in close proximity to other men does nothing to change the fact that there’s only one person with whom he’s ever actually bathed, and it isn’t Jack. But now as last night, Day doesn’t frighten him, not even hypothetically. Kent steps under the spray with him, and loops his arms around Day’s neck, and lets himself drowse pleasantly against the sudstreaked expanse of muscle, smiling as Day gently washes him clean.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Day asks, kissing Kent’s temple.

“You can have ‘em for free,” Kent says, then hesitates. “I just. A part of me can’t believe that I trust you as much as I do, that I’m not actually freaking out right now.”

“About what we just did?”

Kent shakes his head. “Not that. This.” He shrugs to indicate the shower. “Like, I don’t… I don’t exactly have the best associations with, uh. Shared washing, or whatever. But this, with you… it’s nice. Easy. And I think that maybe the reason I’m okay with it is, that night at the bar, you turned me down, but you didn’t make me feel shitty or cheap for doing what I did, and afterwards, you didn’t try to hold it over me. You just… you knew I was messed up. You tried to help. And I guess that now, that makes me feel safe in a bunch of other ways, because you already had the chance to take advantage, and you didn’t.”

Day cradles Kent’s head in his hand, pressing them closer together. “ _Cariño_ ,” he says, voice rough. “Am I truly so unique?”

Kent snorts. “If I was a sorority girl instead of a hockey player, would you even be surprised? Men are the _worst_ , Day.” He softens his voice and leans in, kissing beneath Day’s ear. “Not you, though. You’re alright.”

“So are you,” Day says, and lets Kent push him against the steamfogged glass.

 

*

 

The morning proceeds with a calmness Kent has seldom felt, a fledgling domesticity tinged with an equally unfamiliar sense of sexual satiation. He lends Day a pair of shorts and a shirt to wear, the combination of which proves lethal: the shorts are mesmerizingly tight and, well, _short_ , while the T-shirt – a comically oversized XXL piece of Aces merch that Yaks bought Kent as a gag gift – is so open-necked and stretchy, even on Day, that it skews wantonly off his left shoulder, baring his marked-up neck. His damp hair is pulled back in a loose, low tail, and although he was wearing his contacts yesterday, they’ve now been swapped out for his glasses. He looks _breathtaking_ , and as he putts around Kent’s kitchen, humming under his breath, Kent gets so distracted that he pours almost half of Kit’s kibble straight on the floor instead of in her bowl. Kit, of course, starts eating it anyway, and Kent, blushing furiously, has to shove her head out of the way as he scoops up the overflow.

“Kent,” says Day, “we need to talk about your fridge.”

“What about it?” Kent says, rinsing his hands in the sink.

“It’s _pristine_. What human fridge is this organised? I understand that you’re a professional athlete with a diet plan, but this – this is just _showing off_.” He waves a small glass jar in Kent’s face. “You, Kent Parson, have a labelled, dedicated container for pomegranate seeds. I feel like your milk should be wearing a little flannel and a hipster beanie.”

Kent crosses his arms, fighting the urge to grin. “Okay, firstly, pomegranate seeds are fucking tasty, okay? I eat a lot of salads, they add a nice texture and they store well. And second of all –” he snatches the jar out of Day’s hands, setting it down on the counter, “– you’ve officially waived the right to chirp me for my food choices, Mr Soy Almond Latte.”

“I ordered one _once_.”

“Sure you did.”   

“Pomegranate seeds, though? Really?” Day leans back against the counter, smiling. “Should I start calling you Persephone?”

“It doesn’t fit,” says Kent, stepping into Day’s space. He reaches up, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Persephone stayed in hell.”

Day’s eyes widen. For an answer, he cups a hand to the nape of Kent’s neck and draws him in for a kiss. It’s sinfully slow and sweet, and Kent goes pliant against him, shaking minutely the longer it goes on. He has no yardstick for this, no frame of reference for either intimacy without sex or sex with intimacy; for how it feels to be touched without greed or violence. The scar on his throat is a wayward ache, a source of terror and wonder at once. _How did I nearly die,_ Kent thinks, _without ever having this?_

He pulls back, looking rapturously at Day, and is on the brink of speaking when someone starts pounding on his front door. Both Kent and Day jump, staring confusedly at each other.

“Expecting company?” Day asks.

“Of course not.”

More banging, louder this time, as a muffled voice yells, “Parser, goddamit, you’d better be in there!”

Kent’s brows shoot up: it’s Swoops, of all people. Disentangling himself from Day, who stays in the kitchen, Kent walks over to the door and opens it, barking a startled, “What the _fuck_?” when a gaggle of Aces – Swoops, Hells, Racker, Yaks and Petty – tumble into his living room.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” growls Racker, shoving the other four off him and shutting the door in the process. And then, fixing Kent with an angry glare, “You couldn’t fucking send us a simple heads up?”

“What,” says Kent, flatly. Anxiety starts to crawl up his throat as he looks between his teammates, all of whom have their hackles raised. He casts a frantic glance at Day, who comes to stand beside him, setting a protective arm around Kent’s shoulders. He swallows hard and says, “Is this – if you fuckers are going to yell at me for being gay, for not telling you sooner, then –”

“No!” yelps Hells, looking horrified. “Kent, no, Jesus!”

“Danno be get fucked,” Yaks rumbles, his syntax degrading the way it only does when he’s truly upset. “He is _worst_.”

“ _Fuck_ Danno,” Petty spits, vehemently enough that Kent takes a half-step back and throws his hands up.

“Whoah, time out! What the hell did Danno do this time?”  

Horrified silence.

“Oh, shit,” Hells whispers. “You haven’t seen?”

“Seen what?” Kent says, exasperated.

“Your phone was off,” says Swoops, visibly paling. “Parser, your phone is _never_ off, we thought you’d gone dark –”

“I just got out of hospital, Swoops! Of _course_ my phone was fucking off, I’ve barely slept for a fucking week and I didn’t want management calling about that stupid interview I did at the game –”

“What’s happened?” Day asks, cuttingly gently through Kent’s outrage. He squeezes Kent’s shoulder, glancing between the Aces. “My phone’s off, too. We’ve been awake less than an hour.”

“Christ.” Racker runs a meaty hand down his face. “Fucking fuck on a fuckstick _fuck_!”

Kent’s teammates look meaningfully at each other in a mutual, desperate bid to be Not It. Predictably, this ends with the other four looking at Swoops, who’s generally the best with words; he flinches, mutters, “You cowardly _assholes_ ,” and drags a hand through his hair.

“Swoops?” says Kent, who’s actively fighting panic. “Can you please just –”

“Danno outed you,” Swoops blurts. “On Twitter, last night. It’s… Christ, it’s really fucking ugly, Parser. He and Mads and some of the others went out and got drunk after you left, I mean _really_ drunk, and Danno just… I don’t know if he genuinely thought he was sending you DMs or if he just didn’t care, but he tweeted all this awful shit, and it went viral in about three seconds, especially when people linked it to your interivew. Mads got Danno’s phone off him once he realised and deleted the tweets, but they’d already been screenshot and retweeted and what-the-fuck-evered, and now it’s a fucking shitstorm. Everyone’s been calling you for hours, and we figured at first you were just, you know, trying to get a handle on it, but then we thought you might be, you know.” He swallows. “That you might’ve been really messed up.”

“We wanted to help,” says Hells, looking almost on the verge of tears. “We didn’t want you to think that we – that any of us – were okay with what Danno did, what he _said_ –”

“What did he say?” Kent asks.  

The question lands like a bomb. Kent feels surreally calm, abstractly aware that he ought to be furious, or frightened, or hurt, and yet he’s somehow detached from himself, as though he’s put his body on autopilot. When Swoops pulls his phone from his pocket, swipes through to a news article and hands it over, Kent’s face doesn’t so much as twitch. Under a leading paragraph of text, Danno’s poorly-typed tweets are displayed as graphics, crowding out everything else.

 _@AustinDaniels:_ _@RealKentParson your a fukcing disgrace to the aces dropping that gay bullshit on us you cocksucker fag_   

 _@AustinDaniels:_ _@RealKentParson always new there was something wrong with u and now we all kno what_

 _@AustinDaniels:_ _@RealKentParson how many dicks did u suck to get the c when you did you fuckin g FREAK BITHC_

 _@AustinDaniels:_ _@RealKentParson if Id known what u are I wouldn’t have pulled my skate_

It’s the last tweet that takes Kent’s breath away, and the one that, from the looks of the rest of the article, has made the whole ugly mess about a thousand times worse than it might otherwise have been. Danno slinging slurs at his captain is one thing, and bad enough; saying he would’ve _literally tried to kill him_ is a whole other order of magnitude. Day, reading over Kent’s shoulder, swears violently; Kent doesn’t say anything at all.

Below the synopsis of Danno’s tweets is a link to the full interview Kent did with the ambush reporter, complete with the subtitled gifset of his final angry shutdown. He lingers on it, lips twitching incongruously at the captured look on Day’s face, and experiences a moment of genuine bewilderment when he realises that, by the end of the article, his queerness is still being treated as hypothetical, the writer assuming that Danno’s wrath was sparked by the interview itself, and not by insider knowledge.

“There’s more, obviously,” Swoops says quietly, taking his phone back. “Deadspin and ESPN and everyone else – it’s all over the internet. Management hasn’t outright confirmed that you’re gay, but they’re pretty spectacularly pissed at Danno and making it clear that they don’t support him; when we left, they were arguing about the morality clause in his contract.”

“Debating whether he’d _breeched_ it?” Day exclaims, vibrating with fury.

“No,” says Racker, heavily. “Whether they ought to suspend or terminate him for it.”

Silence falls again. Kent finds himself staring into space, his thoughts all snarled up. His pulse beats in his scar, a dull-fast throb. He’s played with Danno for as long as he’s played with the Aces, and even knowing he was one of the less liberal-minded guys on the team, the idea that he’d come out and say something like that – in public, on Twitter – is still a visceral shock. Kent feels like he’s just taken a hard check; he slumps against Day’s side, fighting the urge to curl into him completely.

And then, like a switch being flipped, he starts to laugh.

Everyone stares at him, which only makes it worse. He grabs Day’s shoulder for support, doubling over as he cackles, winded with the force of it. Every time he tries to stop, he only laughs harder, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“Parser?” asks Swoops, concerned. “Shit, are you okay?”

“ _Mudak_!” Yaks swears, smacking Swoops across the back of the head. “You break captain!”

Still laughing, Kent waves a hand at them. “I’m fine!” he gasps. “Fuck, this isn’t funny, I just –” he breaks off again, wheezing with the force of it, and finally chokes out, “Danno’s a fucking _moron_.”

“Captain,” says Petty gravely. “So you know, you give the word, a mysterious fire happens to Danno’s Ferrari.”

Swoops groans and facepalms. “Oh my god, Petty, we talked about this. _No arson_.”

“Swoops, you are going deaf in your dotage! I didn’t say arson; I said _mysterious fire_.”

Hells snickers. “Thank you, Count Olaf.”

Racker visibly brightens. “Hey, my niece fucking loves those books!”

“They’re amazing, right?”

“Ugly man buy ugly Ferrari,” Yaks says sagely. “Mystery fire saves many eyes.”

“Yasha, you are my very favourite. You have petrol at home, yes?”

“ _No petrol!_ ”

Still laughing, Kent says, “I fucking love you guys, you know that? And Petty, I’m touched you’d consider committing crimes for my honour, but it’s not that ugly-ass car’s fault that Danno bought it. The Ferrari is innocent.” He turns to Day, whose expression is a baffled mixture of outrage, concern and confusion, and says, by way of explanation, “It’s a Mondal 8. Danno thinks he knows shit about jack about classic cars, so of course he buys a fucking box with vents in it from the goddamn _eighties_ just because there’s a prancing horse on the bonnet.”

“How very heterosexual of him,” says Day, his face as straight as the midweek crowd at Hooters. “And his dick is how small, exactly?”

Swoops makes a noise like an angry goose fucking a set of bagpipes. “Oh my _god_ ,” he says, choking with laughter. “Parser, fucking keep this guy, will you?”

“Trying to,” says Kent, and looks at Day with an expression he hopes is more humour than anxiety. “Is daydrinking an acceptable response to this bullshit, or am I gonna have to act like an adult?”

“Fuck adulting,” says Day, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You want me to make mimosas? Because I won’t lie, I’ve kind of been craving one since I saw you have champagne and orange juice in your fridge.”

“Marry me,” Kent breathes, and pulls Day in for a proper kiss that has his teammates hooting. He pulls back, blushing fiercely, and is gratified to see that Day’s cheeks are as hot as his own.

“Mimosas,” says Day, a little dazedly. “Right. Uh.” He turns and blinks at the Aces. “You guys want in on this?”

“Fucking _hell yes_ ,” says Racker, which is how the seven of them end up sprawled across Kent’s living room at 9:30am on a Tuesday, drinking mimosas from Kent’s set of novelty champagne flutes, all of which have _classy bitch_ inscribed on them in gold. Racker and Swoops have each claimed an armchair; Hells is sandwiched between Yaks and Petty on one couch, while Kent and Day sprawl languidly on the other.

Their phones, still turned off, sit on the coffee table like UXBs.

“Fucking hell,” says Kent, eventually. The first two mimosas have taken the edge off his panic; now, as he gestures with a third and leans his head against Day’s chest, he just feels weary. “You know, it’s not like I expected everyone to just roll with it, I knew there was going to be pushback, but I just – _this_?” He exhales hard and shakily, trying not to think of how Danno had come to see him in hospital, guilty and asking forgiveness. “Fuck’s sake, I figured if anyone was gonna blow up at me, it would’ve been Mads, given how much he loves no homo jokes.”

“Katzy’s with him now, I think,” says Hells, looking at his own phone. “With Danno, I mean, not Mads. I think Patrick sent him over to babysit, make sure he stays off the internet.” He hesitates, and then, when nobody stops him, goes on with, “Javvy’s been calling everyone else, letting them know what’s happening, running interference with PR and management. Mads, though… I’m not sure what he’s doing.”

Racker makes a face. “Shutting the fuck up, if he knows what’s good for him.”

“I upshut his fuck,” mutters Yaks, pink-cheeked from a single mimosa. Petty, who has only just realised this, looks at his fellow Russian with something akin to delighted horror.

“Yasha,” he says, scandalised. “You are _champagne drunk_ , what am I seeing even?”

“Is bubbles! _Bubbles_ , Kolya. They –”

“You are like wine mom!” Petty hoots. “A Real Housewife of Las Veg- _aaagh!_ ”

He breaks off as Yaks leaps over Hells and grapples him into a headlock. Swoops, true to his nickname, swoops in and plucks Petty’s mimosa out of his flailing hand before he can spill any on Kent’s carpet, sitting back with a look of disgust. Amidst the sudden tussle of swearing Russians, Hells necks the rest of his drink and slithers under Yaks’s reach, escaping to kneel on the floor. Yaks and Petty both overbalance, toppling into the vacated space and smacking their foreheads together with a resounding _thwack_.

“Now _that_ ,” says Racker, who’s been filming the whole thing on his phone, “is some quality entertainment!”

Petty jerks his head up, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Rules about not hitting goalies only apply on ice.”

“You say that like you think I care.”

“Are they always like this?” Day murmurs to Kent, as Petty and Racker start bickering in earnest and Hells, undetected by them both, starts filming their spat in turn.

“Pretty much,” says Kent. “Just, you know. Usually with more beer and fewer shirts.” And then, turning, “Petty, for fuck’s sake sit down and have another mimosa. Racker and Hells, stop filming your bullshit in the middle of my crisis. Swoops –” Kent raises his glass; Swoops raises the one he stole, “– you do you. And Yaks, buddy, embrace your inner wine mom. If it makes you feel any better, I think I have a vodka aunt shirt in my wardrobe somewhere.”

Day snorts. “Of course you do.”

“Shut the fuck up, it’s _couture_.”

“Meme couture, yes. Regular couture, no.”

“Oh, like there’s a difference?”

“Heathen,” says Day, and kisses him gently on the neck in a way that makes Kent nonverbal.

“Just so you know,” says Racker, in conversational tones, “I’m not fining you right now only because these are special fucking circumstances. But at some point, the fines _will_ recommence, and when they do, Parser, you’re gonna be putting my future kids through college if you keep this shit up.”

Kent dextrously flips him off without putting down his mimosa, then looks at the drink and sighs. He sets it down on the table, swapping it for his phone. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now, except that it’s too much, and all the despair he’s been holding back crashes into him in a wave.

“Jesus fuck,” he whispers, cradling the blank screen. “Would he – do you really think he’d have killed me?”

Everyone freezes.

“ _Cariño_ ,” Day says softly. “No. You can’t think about that.”

“I can, though. I am. Because he said it.” Kent stares viciously at the floor. “Christ, I can’t even – he came to me and _apologised_ , you know that? Blamed himself for what happened, and I told him I knew he tried to stop, but if he hadn’t, if he’d just – if he’d ever suspected, ever let it cross his mind – a few milimeters deeper when he hit, and who would’ve blamed him? Who would’ve ever known?” His throat tightens up like a vice. “The worst part is, when I started laughing? It’s because he’s done me a favour. He’s said the worst thing, the _worst possible fucking thing_ that anyone could’ve said in this situation, and he said it _on record_. To a _teammate_. To his _captain_. And that’s the fucking crux of it, that’s what’s going to put any fucking fence-sitters on my side: not the goddamn bigotry of it, oh no, but the _disloyalty_. Because if he’d said it to a fucking rival player, you’d still get some asswipes saying, _oh, but there’s an old grudge there, he went too far but he’s not the first player to do that,_ and you’d get a debate about chirping and bullying and what the fucking distinction is, and whether or not it’s worse than Matt Cooke putting the knee in over and fucking over again, but because I’m his _captain_ , suddenly they’ll see that he’s crossed a line. Not because he shouldn’t ever say that shit to anyone, but because he shouldn’t have said it to me _in particular_.”

“Parser,” Swoops says, his voice damnably gentle. “I get what you’re saying, and it’s fucked up, I know, but it’s true both ways – he shouldn’t have said it to anyone, but he _especially_ shouldn’t have said it to you. And believe me, people are making that point already: that even if you’d been from a rival team, it still would’ve been indefensible.”

Kent doesn’t answer that; he doesn’t have the strength. He knows Swoops is trying to cheer him up, the same way they’ve all been trying, in their own loud, clumsy way, to help him deal with this, and maybe Swoops is right. Maybe the majority of commentators won’t have their heads in their asses for once. But Kent’s lived with fear for too long – and for too many valid reasons – to suddenly evolve a spirit of optimism on this particular point.

And yet –

_Jack and Bitty, coaching him from a distance. Hells coming out to him, Katzy’s quiet pride, Javvy’s reassurance. Yaks and Petty, Swoops and Racker; all the Aces cheering as he kissed Day in the locker room._

_Day, who’s warm against him now._

Kent looks at his phone. He looks and looks and, finally, turns it on.

“Fuck it,” he says out loud. He grabs up his mimosa, drains the glass, and thumps it back down on the coffee table. Turning, he looks Day in the eye and asks, “You wanna take a coming out photo with me?”

Day’s eyes widen behind his frames. “You’re sure? You don’t want to speak to your management people first?”

“I probably should,” says Kent, “but no. Fuck it. I already did shit right, coming out to the Aces first, and – no offence, guys – but look where that’s fucking got me.”

“None taken,” say Swoops and Hells.

“This isn’t – this isn’t a fucking PR piece. It’s not a soundbite, it’s not a negotiation, and it’s sure as fuck not something I should’ve ever had to run by anyone other than you. So.” He pauses, wincing, as his phone starts vibrating violently with a backlog of texts and missed calls. When it finally quiets, he looks at Day again, his heart in his throat. “Will you? With me?”

“Of course,” says Day. “What did you have in mind?”

Kent tells him.

 

*

 

The photo goes up on Instagram ten minutes later. In it, Kent is leaning his head back against Day’s collarbone, smiling softly, Day’s long fingers gentle beneath his jaw. The scar on his throat is visible except where Day is kissing it, expression tender as his lips brush the puckered skin. It’s intimate and vulnerable and undeniably sexual, not least because Kent’s Aces shirt is still skewing off Day’s shoulder, baring his marked-up neck, while Kent himself is visibly bare-chested. And underneath, a simple caption:

_Alive. Gay. I can play. #happy_


	9. What Comes to Those Who Wait

Posting the photo is, of necessity, followed by a certain number of phone calls. Kent tries to keep the majority brief, an endeavour in which he is aided by the palpable guilt and Danno-induced outrage of the Aces management. Patrick, Tasha and his agent all accept his decision with minimum fuss and maximum apology; even their coach, who looked frankly disgusted when Kent came out in the locker room, sounds sincerely angry on his behalf, though the effect is rather spoiled by his rustic homophobia. Kent rolls his eyes to the ceiling, focussing on the fact that coach is at least _trying_ to do better, even if he does say shit like _always figured I’d know if we had a queer around because you can mostly just tell, though I guess maybe not,_ and ends the call feeling like he’s been running suicides for an hour. The name of the exercise has never felt so ironic. Kent grins with manic determination and finally calls Jack, who picks up on the first ring.

“ _Crisse_ , Kenny, are you all right? That absolute _fuckstain_ –”

“Chill, Zimms,” Kent laughs, enjoying the rare creative profanity on his behalf. “Have your boy check my Insta.”

“Zimmerman has a _boy_?” exclaims Swoops, loudly enough that Jack, on the other end, hears it, and makes a shocked noise.

Kent winces, taking only minor satisfaction in smacking Swoops pointedly in the shoulder. “You _asshole_ ,” he hisses, though he also kind of means himself for letting the slip occur. And then, to Jack, “Sorry, I didn’t think –”

“It’s okay,” says Jack, with barely a gulp to the words. “If you trust them, I trust them.”

“You’re such a sap,” Kent says, but he relaxes a little all the same. “Anyway, is he looking?”

“Bringing it up now,” says Jack.

There’s a brief, quiet pause, and then Kent hears the glorious and unmistakeably Southern sound of Bitty saying, “Oh my _lord_.”   

“ _Crisse_ ,” Jack says again – impressed, not angry this time; but also, unless Kent misses his mark, a little bit breathless, too.

“Good lighting, huh?”

“Very.”

Kent laughs. “C’mon, Zimms. Admit it: I look hot today.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Jack Laurent Zimmerman,” says Bitty, chirping fondly, “we both know you’re not _blind_.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“I’m bein’ supportive,” Bitty says primly. And then, with a touch more wickedness, “And anyways, I meant Day.”

Jack laughs aloud at that; it’s an effort of will for Kent to keep from joining him. “Not gonna argue with that,” he says instead, and finds himself smiling stupidly at Day. “Anyway, I just – yeah. Just thought I should give you a heads up, or whatever.”

“Thanks, Kenny,” says Jack. “Me and Bits, we’re not sure yet if we’re going to make any official statement about us being together, but if – when – I’m asked to comment on this, I’m not going to hide what we were to each other. I’m… I’m going to come out, too.”

Kent wasn’t expecting that; it shocks him briefly into silence. “That’s, uh. Wow. Thanks, I mean, but – are you sure? It’s kind of a no takebacks situation.”

“I know that, and I’m pretty fucking nervous, to be honest. But I’ve already been speaking to Falconers PR about contingencies for a while now, and I think… what that asshole did to you, it would be so easy for other closeted players to look at it and think, shit, it’s every man for himself if someone gets outed, and I don’t want that, you know? And anyway, I can’t… I honestly don’t think I can talk about this as though it isn’t personal. Like –” he pauses; Kent can picture his frown of concentration perfectly, “– even if we weren’t friends again, even if we’d never dated, it would still be personal to me, because it could have happened to me just like it’s happened to you. But we _are_ friends again, and we _did_ date, and trying to pretend that all away for the sake of hiding a few months longer, when the whole point is that none of us should have to hide in the first place? Waiting until I’ve caught you up in awards and points and won a Cup, just so nobody can say my boyfriend is holding me back from those things, as though I can’t still win them once I’m out – as though anyone blames the WAGs when straight guys are mediocre?” He snorts. “Fuck that. I’ve got your back, Parson.”

The air in his apartment, Kent thinks, is far too dusty. It’s making him well up. “Zimms, you smooth motherfucker. That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack’s blush, like his frown, is adorably audible. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” says Kent. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve got yours, too.”

They manage a few more pleasantries, then end the call. Kent stares at his phone for a long moment, then sets it to silent and drops it back on the coffee table.

“Sorry, cap,” Swoops says, sheepishly. “That was tacky of me. Joking about Zimmerman like that, it’s a total no-homo foul –”

Kent full-on cackles, staring at Swoops with a mix of delight and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“Swoops, you dense heterosexual, Zimms is my _ex_. All that shit about us doing it back at the Q? Not actually wrong, for once.”

“Holy fuck,” says Racker, staring at Kent in awe. “You and Zimmerman?”

“He’s going to come out, because of this,” Kent says, and doesn’t miss the way Day’s head jerks up at the news. “I don’t know when, exactly, but soon. So none of you fuckers breathe a word before he’s had a chance to do it himself, okay?”

“We not tell,” Yaks says solemnly, raising a thick, calloused finger off his champagne flute and flicking a neat cross-your-heart gesture in the air. “Swear oath.”

Kent gives him a grateful nod. Putting his phone on silent, he drops it back on the table and wanders into the kitchen, finding himself in urgent need of something else to drink.

“Holy shit, Parser,” says Hells. He’s been on his phone the whole time, scrolling through various social media feeds. “I think you just broke the internet.”

“It was a team effort,” Kent says loftily, pulling open the fridge. “Shit, are we out of champagne already? Didn’t I have, like, four bottles or something?”

“Relevant use of the past tense: _had_ ,” says Day, putting an arm around Kent’s waist. At this point, the amount of PDA they’re engaging in can best be described as _excessive_ , and Kent doesn’t fucking care – and nor, apparently, does Day, who seems just as reluctant to stop touching Kent as Kent is to stop touching him. “We drank them all. Also, there’s no more OJ.”

“Well, fuck.” Kent frowns at the fridge, contemplating options, then looks hesitantly at Day. “Cocktails?”

“Cocktails,” Day agrees, and kisses him on the forehead.

Blushing brightly, Kent shuts the fridge and turns to look at the living room. “Hey assholes, we’re having cocktails! You want some?”

“Shit yeah!” says Swoops, rubbing his hands together. “We’re not even playing again until Thursday – bring it on!”

“Can I get Javvy over?” asks Racker. “He could probably use a fuckin’ drink by now.”

“Sure,” says Kent. “Why the hell not? Katzy, too, if he can get away from Danno.” He hesitates, considering. “Mads… I don’t fucking know about Mads. If he’s going to be a dick, he can fuck off; otherwise, he can come. Same applies to anyone else. Use your judgement.”

Petty does a spit-take. “ _Him?_ ”

Kent ignores him. “And tell Javvy to pick up, like, a million pizzas on the way over, would you? If we’re committed to daydrinking, my diet plan can get fucked.”

Day bumps their shoulders together. “You’re a wise man, Kent Parson.”

Kent leans into him, belated anxiety bubbling in his chest. “Come with me a minute?”

“Sure,” says Day, and obligingly lets Kent pull him into the bedroom.

Shutting the door to the sound of Swoops’s obnoxious cheering, Kent scuffs the floor and says, addressing the air to the right of Day’s shoulder, “Is this okay?”

“Is what okay?”

“This. Today. The, the photo, and the guys coming over, I didn’t –” Kent makes a frustrated noise, “– I don’t want you to feel like you have to, uh, be okay with stuff just because I ask for it, or because other people are watching. I can tell them to fuck off if you want, or you can, um, you could invite some people too, or –”

“Kent –”

“– I just, I don’t know what the etiquette is, with asking a, a partner about this stuff, and it’s a lot, okay, I know I’m a lot at the best of times, but I also know how easy it is to feel like you’ve gotta do something just to, like, to make someone happy, or to make it so strangers don’t think you’re upset when you really are –”

“Kent –”

“– and I just. I wanted to make sure that I’m, uh. Not. Doing that. To you.” And then, more softly, “I never want to be that guy.”

He hangs his head, ashamed without knowing why. He hugs his stomach, reflexively curling in on himself, and somehow doesn’t flinch when Day puts his hands on Kent’s shoulders and squeezes.

“This, what we’re doing right now? It’s wonderful,” Day says, softly. “The photo was perfect. Your team being here, supporting you, is amazing. I’m… if anything, I’m overwhelmed that you trust me to do this with you.” He leans in, brushing a kiss to Kent’s temple. “You’re a good person, Kent. You deserve good things.” He kisses his cheek. “Like friends.” He kisses the other. “And pizza.” He bumps their noses together, grinning. “And cocktails.”

Kent jerks bodily, staring at Day. There’s no hidden mockery in the words, no trace of anything other than faith and kindness. Their gazes lock, and Kent feels like he’s finally come up for air after years spent underwater. Trembling, he smooths his hands across Day’s chest, steps in close and clings to him, letting out a near-whimper when Day hugs him back, tight and safe.

They stay like that for nearly a minute, Kent breathing in the warmth of them together. He never thought he was touch-starved before now, but that was clearly because he had no viable basis for comparison. Almost, he’s tempted to tell his team that he’s changed his mind, to fuck off and let him go back to bed with his boyfriend. But the fact that the guys showed up for him, their support and acceptance, means too much to willingly disregard it.

“We should, uh. We should go back out,” he says, forehead pressed to Day’s shoulder. “Make sure nobody traumatises Kit.”

“Okay,” says Day, and kisses his temple. “What cocktails do you want?”

 

*

 

By the time Javvy shows up with a literal armload of pizza boxes, Kent is pleasantly drunk and lounging up against Day, a drink in one hand and the TV remote in the other, flicking through muted TV channels while Britney Spears plays unashamedly in the background. It’s Swoops who opens the door for their teammate, shirtless and holding what is almost, if you squint, a margarita.

“Give unto me your sustenance!” he says, attempting to swipe the top box from the pile.

Dodging him, Javvy takes one look at the state of Kent’s living room, rolls his eyes and says, “Christ. It’s like Animal Planet in here.”

“What wrong with Animal Planet?” Yaks says, offended. He’s lying on the floor with his head in Hells’s lap, letting the rookie put his thick blonde hair in a series of braids.

“Yeah, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it,” says Racker, sprawled crosswise in an armchair with Kit on his chest. She’s been gently kneading his beard for the past five minutes, forepaws flexing against his chin. Kent can’t imagine it’s comfortable, but who is he to argue? Goalies are fucking weird.

Petty, who’s taking his turn at cocktail duty, pokes his head out of the kitchen. Somewhat inexplicably, he’s wearing a novelty apron with the original lolcat on it, one of the many gag gifts the Aces have given Kent over the years. “You want a drink?” he asks, brandishing a blender full of his latest concoction.

“What the fuck is that,” says Javvy.

Kent lifts his head, squinting suspiciously at the proffered beverage. It’s bright green. He runs a mental inventory of his traditionally well-stocked liquor cabinet and says, “Petty, are you using crème de menthe?”

“A little,” Petty says cheerfully. “Also lemonade, lime, crushed ice, cream and chartreuse.”

“I swear to god,” Javvy mutters, dumping the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter. “All right, then. Gimme.”

Petty’s face lights up. He grabs a glass and pours while Javvy eyes the concoction with no small degree of trepidation. As Swoops moves in on the pizza and takes it for distribution, Javvy holds up his cocktail, mutters what sounds suspiciously like a prayer, and swallows.

“How is it?” Hells asks, grinning.

Javvy makes a face. “It tastes like menthol and bad decisions. Thematically appropriate, eh?” He takes another, more meditative sip and says, “Incidentally, Parser, do you know there’s, like, twenty fucking journalists camped out in front of your building right now?”

Kent groans. “Fucking seriously?”

“Please tell me you didn’t punch anyone,” says Swoops, around a mouthful of pizza.

“I would _never_ ,” says Javvy, with absolute insincerity. And then, with an apologetic glance at Day, “I mean, not you, though. You’re okay.”

“Thank you?” Day says, slightly confused.

Kent laughs and kisses his cheek. “Trust me, babe. That’s high praise. Javvy hates press.”

“Vultures,” Javvy mutters, swigging his green concoction as _it’s Britney, bitch_ comes through the speakers. He glares resentfully at Kent’s iPod dock. “Why do I feel like I’m in the fucking Twilight Zone?”

“Just accept,” says Yaks, from the floor. He gesticulates with a pizza slice. “Be one with cosmos.”

“Don’t look at me,” says Kent, in response to Javvy’s imploring expression. “I just live here.”

Javvy sighs heavily. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” he sighs, stepping over Yaks to claim a spot on the couch. “Swoops, where the fuck did you put my pepperoni?”

As Petty discards the apron and brings his new drink from the kitchen, everyone converges on the pizza like a locust swarm, eating and chirping and jostling and, inevitably, arguing over favourite toppings and who gets the last slice of what. Despite his earlier reassurance, Kent worries briefly about Day not getting along with Javvy – or rather, about Javvy not getting along with Day. But when Swoops complains about one of the pizzas being too spicy and Javvy mutters something in Spanish, Day bursts out laughing and replies in the same language. Javvy grins broadly, and within moments the two of them are – presumably, given the context – shit-talking Swoops while the others cackle with laughter.

“Fuck you all,” Swoops grumbles. “I have sensitive tastebuds, okay?”

“Sensitive tastebuds, my ass,” Petty snorts, and promptly says something clearly derogatory in Russian. This time, it’s Yaks who guffaws and replies in kind, until Racker, Hells and Kent are absolutely losing it at the sight of Swoops being chirped in two different languages.

Swoops throws up his hands. “All right, all right! I get it, you fucking assholes. I’m officially the most white-bread white American bro up in this domicile _despite_ the fact that Parser is still playing Britney _on repeat_ –”

“I’m gay,” says Kent, deadpan.

Day laughs so hard, he chokes on his drink.

“You want some mayonnaise with that?” Hells chirps slyly, gesturing at Swoops’s pizza.

“My own rookie,” Swoops says, clutching his chest. “My _very own rookie_ has turned on me.”

Racker cackles. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is, to have a thankless child!”

A beat of stunned and comprehensive silence. Everyone stares at Racker, who stares defiantly back.

“What?” he says, defensive. “It’s fucking Shakespeare! _Everyone_ likes Shakespeare, you uncultured assclowns.”

Javvy shakes his head, bewildered. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

Kent is still processing this development when someone knocks on the door.

Swoops groans. “I’m not getting up this time.”

“It’s probably Mads or Katzy,” says Kent, forcing himself up off the couch. “I’ll get it.”

Drink in hand, Kent saunters over and pulls the door open, fully prepared to chirp whoever’s there. The words die in his throat, however, when the newcomer is revealed to be, not a member of the Aces, but an absolutely stunning – if decidedly short – young woman. She’s dressed in black yoga pants, red ballet flats and a grey Penn State sweater that’s several sizes too large, her kinky hair coiled in immaculate chin-length twists. She beams at him, a broad, bright smile in a heart-shaped face, her brown skin utterly flawless.

“Pardon the interruption,” she says, “but I need to speak to my brother.” And before Kent can think to protest this, she steps neatly past him and into the living room.

Kent whirls, heart pounding, absolutely certain that something awful is about to happen. Instead, he’s treated to the sight of Day executing the most gloriously comic double-take he’s ever seen in real life, eyes widening as he practically falls off the couch in his rush to stand up. The other Aces fall eerily silent, watching the scene unfold.

“Oh my god,” Day says faintly, stumbling forwards. “Zora, what the fuck? What the actual fuck are you doing here, oh my god –”

“You _asshole_!” Zora shouts, whacking him fiercely across the shoulder, three quick blows which, despite her diminutive size, are clearly powerful. “Why the shitfucking Christ is your fucking phone off, huh? I have to find out you’re dating Kent fucking Parson from the fucking TV in the rec room, like I’m somebody’s grandma?” A string of rapid Spanish follows that has Javvy visibly biting his lip to keep from laughing, the tirade culminating in a final slap to Day’s other arm. “Do not _ever_ do that to your family again, you inconsiderate _ingrato_!”

“Oh my god,” Day says again, and opens his arms as Zora finally flings herself in for a hug. “You’re such a fucking terror, you know that?”

“Bite me, tall stuff.”

“Bro,” says Javvy, one eyebrow raised. “You seriously didn’t tell your family about all this?”

“A tactical error,” Day says. “ _Clearly_.” And then, when Zora steps back and glares at him, “I’m sorry, all right? I was going to call this evening, I swear! We didn’t even know about Danno’s tweets until a few hours ago, and –” He breaks off, staring at her. “There hasn’t been enough time since our post went up for you to fly all the way to Vegas. Did you seriously come here because of that fucking interview? It didn’t even confirm anything!”

Zora snorts. “Oh, please. I know what your New Boyfriend Face looks like, so don’t even fucking front with me. It was obvious.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” says Kent, simultaneously awed and baffled, “but how the fuck did you find out where I live? This address isn’t listed anywhere.”

Zora grins. “I figured the press would be all over you guys, so I looked up all the local sports journalists, called their offices, and told whoever answered that I had an exclusive tip about your relationship that I’d only give to the actual writer in person. The ones who weren’t in their offices were all hanging out at the same address, according to their colleagues, so I came here, flirted with a couple of gross cameradudes with their lenses pointed at the windows until I could figure out which floor you were on, waited until a lady who lived here was coming in with her shopping, helped her with her bags so she’d let me in, too, then came up to this floor and knocked on doors until I found the right one.”

Kent stares at her. “You are tiny and terrifying,” he says. “Can I offer you a cocktail?”

Zora beams. “Yes, please. But also, just to get it out of the way? If you ever hurt my brother, I will beat you to death with a cactus.”

“Noted,” says Kent, slightly strangled, and goes to pour her a drink, watching in fascination as Day introduces her to the Aces. Zora’s impact on the group is a memory Kent will treasure forever. Swoops knocks the last half-glass of mimosa all over himself while flailing to get his shirt back on, Hells blushes bright red and stammers, Yaks can’t manage to speak in English, and Petty falls over himself offering to make her a different drink if she doesn’t like the green one. Zora just laughs and takes it in stride, chirping Swoops, giving Hells an encouraging smile and, to the clear astonishment of both Yaks and Petty, asking the former in Russian if the latter’s drink-mixing skills are any good. Kent’s mouth falls open at that: he knows barely enough Russian to be sure of the question, and even he can tell that her pronunciation is excellent.

 _What the fuck_ , he mouths at Day, who grins and shrugs and gently moves his sister on from Yaks and Petty – both of whom, as far as Kent can tell, are vowing to find her proper Russian vodka, which for Yaks at least is damn near a declaration of intent.

As the only married man in the group, Javvy is unique in managing to respond like a normal person, shaking Zora’s hand and grinning. “I don’t have much time for journalists,” he says, “but your brother seems pretty alright.”

“He does his best,” says Zora, brown eyes gleaming with humour. Day looking imploringly skywards.

Last of all comes Racker, who stands respectfully and, to the absolute astonishment of everyone, takes Zora’s proffered hand and bows over it, coming within a breath of kissing her fingers without actually doing so. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says sincerely. It ought to be so cheesily ridiculous as merit instant chirping, but somehow, impossibly, Racker makes it work.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” says Zora, smiling up at him with just a touch more warmth in her cheeks than she’d had a moment ago. “You’re the goalie, right?”

Racker looks delighted. “I am,” he says. And then, nodding at her sweatshirt, “You go to Penn State? My cousin is there, too.”

As the two of them starts talking, Kent hands Zora her drink and goes to comfort Day, who looks like he’s experiencing severe emotional whiplash.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” says Kent, grinning as he sits him down on the vacant couch. “Just accept that your family has a thing for hockey players.”

Day groans audibly. “Oh god, _don’t_.”

Javvy bursts out laughing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 100% pure fluff, because that's what I need this week. I APOLOGISE FOR NOTHING.


	10. Knit Up the Ravelled Sleave of Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: a non-graphic but nonetheless potentially upsetting description of assault (which takes place in a nightmare). If you want to avoid it, cut out at "The nightmare comes with slow inevitability" and come back in at "Kent screams himself awake".

A lazy day becomes a lazy afternoon becomes a lazy evening, not least because it’s pointed out midway through the festivities that the Falconers are playing a home game against the Bruins, and since they’re already hanging out, why not stay and watch it? Zora, ensconced on the arm of Racker’s chair, looks briefly like she wants to chirp them all for this choice, but manfully – or womanfully, rather – refrains. Instead, she casts a speculative look at Racker, smiles at whatever she sees, and relocates to his lap, her legs tucked up and an arm around his shoulder. It’s a casually possessive manoeuvre that reminds Kent of nothing so much as Kit choosing a new favourite human, not least because his cat had done much the same thing to Racker prior to Zora’s arrival. Racker himself looks quietly thrilled with this development, tentatively resting a hand on Zora’s hip and grinning unabashedly when she shifts to accommodate him.

“Shouldn’t you be intervening in this?” Swoops says to Day, gesturing plaintively at the overfull armchair. “Giving a shovel talk or exerting some brotherly influence or something?”

“No,” says Day, without looking up.

“Why not?”

“Because even if I was sexist enough to think it was my business, I’m not stupid enough to incur the wrath of a woman who once gagged a man with a waffle cone for groping her on a date.”

“Day, please,” drawls Zora, examining her nails the way Kit examines her claws. “It was never a _date_.”

Across the room, Swoops chokes on his cocktail, while everyone except Yaks and Racker laughs: Racker because he’s too busy listening to the private follow-up comment Zora whispers in his ear, and Yaks because he’s looking at the pair of them with the sort of awe and envy normally reserved for gorgeous enemy goals. Petty, who notices this, claps his compatriot sagely on the shoulder; Yaks wilts a little, mutters something under his breath, and takes a very long drink.

By the time the pregame commentary starts, the many pizzas are enough a thing of the past that Kent puts Hells in charge of procuring them all Chinese takeout, a task to which the rookie applies himself with commendable enthusiasm. The food arrives not long after the puck drops, and Kent’s condo is soon full of the sounds of hockey players yelling a mix of advice, profanity and disparagement at the TV while arguing over lo mein. Day sits pressed beside him, one arm around Kent’s shoulders as he gesticulates at his sister with a half-eaten egg roll, the two of them engaged in some ancient familial back-and-forth about the comparative failings of various hockey commentators. Zora snorts in response and flicks Kent an amused glance.

“Get used to this,” she says. “He’s even worse about Don Cherry.”

“I am _not_ ,” says Day, and promptly ends the conversation in favour of feeding his egg roll to Kit, who wolfs it daintily from his hand. Kent feels unbearably fond about all of it, filled with a degree and type of happiness so unfamiliar, it’s almost painful. He rests his head on Day’s shoulder, shutting his eyes through the ad break, and doesn’t think of Danno even once.

It’s a hard-fought game, but in the end the Falconers win 4-3 in regulation, thanks in no small part to two magnificent goals from Jack. Kent watches with his usual nostalgia for being on a line with him, but for once, there’s no accompanying sting of guilt or grief or bitterness; just a faint, burgeoning happiness for his oldest friend. Which is perhaps why, despite the day’s events, Kent doesn’t feel any anxiety when the camera cuts to Jack being interviewed at the end of the game, just a vague amusement that, even after two goals and a win, he still manages to look like a flushed and sombre hockey robot.

The reporter is a young blonde woman, and her first two questions are about the game, which Jack answers with regulation Canadian politeness. Her third question, however, takes rather a different tack.

“So, Jack,” she says, smiling carefully, “without wanting to detract at all from your performance here tonight, there’s been a major stir in the hockey world today, with one of your former teammates, Kent Parson, being confirmed as the first openly gay player in the NHL. Do you have any comment on that?”

Jack’s eyes glitter. “I do, actually,” he says, and just for a moment, he looks dead at the camera, so that Kent’s pulse leaps with the sudden, absurd conviction that Jack is looking at _him_. “What Austin Daniels did was utterly reprehensible, not only in terms of violating the trust of his team and his captain and the spirit of sportsmanship in the NHL, but as a purely malicious human act. Nobody deserves to be outed, let alone with such viciousness, and I commend Kent for his handling of the situation. The fact that he’s a mature, successful player is obviously going to help him weather the fallout, but what makes me furious is the thought of how many young queer players are going to take this as a sign that, even at Kent’s level, you don’t get to control the narrative around your own sexuality; that you can win a Stanley Cup and still have to go through this bullshit because some homophobe mouths off on Twitter. If someone had outed Kent and I when we were dating, or if we’d had to watch the same thing happen to one of our idols, it would’ve been devastating, and I want everyone who’s watching this to know that it doesn’t have to be like that for them; that _we_ can play.”

Everyone goes dead silent. Kent stares at the screen, watching the reporter’s face as she realises what’s just happened.

“I’m sorry,” she says, audibly shaken, “are you – um, did you just confirm that, uh, you and Kent Parson were in a romantic relationship at one time?”

“I did,” says Jack, and oh, god, Kent’s crying, he’s fucking _crying_ with how huge this feels. “We dated for a while in juniors, though obviously, we’re not together now.” He grins, just a little shakily, and says, “For the record, I’m bisexual.”

“Holy shit,” breathes Javvy. “Is this real life?”

“That’s, uh –” the reporter visibly flounders, mouth working as she pulls herself together. “Wow. I have to say, I was not expecting that!”

“Really,” Jack says, deadpan.

The reporter laughs, only slightly manic. “Sorry, sorry, I just – that is honestly a much more personal answer than I was expecting. Um. Thank you? Is that weird, to say thank you?”

“That depends on what you’re thanking me for, Katie,” says Jack. “For coming out, or for giving you the story?”

The reporter – Katie – flushes, and Kent is prepared to hate her until she blurts, “For making this okay. I – I’m bi, too, and you never – I get asked to ask players about this stuff, and nobody ever – I always have to pretend like I’m talking about other people, like it doesn’t matter to me no matter what the answer is, but it _does_ , and you – I just, I want to say, both personally and professionally –” her tone evens out a little, regaining some of her former camera-ready confidence, “– that I really appreciate your honesty, and that the NHL, going forwards as an institution, should count itself lucky to have players like you, and like Kent Parson, to act as its representatives.”

Kent lets out a strangled sob, squeezing Day’s hand hard. On screen, Jack looks stunned, his media manners falling away as he chokes out a “thank you” and hugs the reporter, one big hand on the back of her head as she squeezes him fiercely. They’re laughing when they pull apart, Katie a little misty-eyed, and it’s with an audible crack in her voice that she says, “Jack Zimmerman, thanks for talking to us.”

“My pleasure,” says Jack, and gives a dorky little wave to the camera.

The NHL logo comes up, and the broadcast cuts to commercial.

Wordlessly, Day turns the TV off.

“So,” Kent says, voice shaking as he scrubs his eyes. “That, uh. That happened. That really just happened, right?”

“Yeah, bro,” says Swoops, grinning softly. “It really did.”

“I cannot believe you dated Jack Zimmerman,” says Javvy, who – Kent belatedly realises – was out getting pizza when the subject of Jack’s sexuality first came up. “ _That’s_ the basis for your Falconers rivalry? Competing exes?”

“We’re friends now,” Kent says quickly. “Or we’re trying to be, I mean. It’s not, uh… it’s kind of new? But before, it was kind of, um. I said some really shitty stuff to him before he signed, because when he, uh, when he overdosed, that was kind of when we stopped, and it was, um – it was hard for me,” he says, flushing at the look on Javvy’s face. He sucks in air, unfathomably grateful for the brush of Day’s thumb across his hand, and rushes on with, “I was messed up when I came to Vegas, because I’ve always been messed up, my whole life. But I meant what I said at the game last night, that you guys are my family here. And I’m, I just.” He swallows hard. “It really means a lot to me, that you’re all here.”

“Of course we’re fucking here, Parser,” Racker says, his voice uncommonly gentle. “You’re our family, too.”

Which is the single sappiest thing that Racker has ever said in Kent’s hearing, or possibly in his actual _life_ , and Kent is on the brink of chirping him for it when Hells looks up from his phone and says, somewhat breathlessly, “Something’s happening on Twitter. Something good,” he adds quickly, in response to Kent’s startled flinch, “sorry, I just – you really need to see this.” And he stumbles up and hands his phone over, showing the screen to Kent.

For a long moment, Kent doesn’t understand what he’s seeing; the words don’t quite make sense. It feels like a prank; he stares at Hells, desperate and uncomprehending, and then looks back to the screen.

Day, reading over his shoulder, inhales sharply. “Oh my god.”

Because there, for all the world to see, one of the leading prospects for the upcoming NHL draft has tweeted: _Whoever wants me, you should know – I’m queer like Parson & Zimmerman. Reckon that puts me in good company! #wecanplay _ 

And from that confession, a hashtag is gaining momentum. There are high school hockey players of both genders coming out, as well as some adult amateurs or people who play for fun – even queer fans identifying themselves, tagging the official accounts for their favourite teams, and it hits Kent like a gutpunch to see that some of them like the Aces. Hands shaking, he pulls his own phone out, taps through to Twitter, finds the hashtag and writes: _I love everyone in this bar #wecanplay_

“What is it?” Javvy asks, craning his neck to see. “What’s happened?”

Hells reclaims his phone and passes it over to him, and soon they’re all pulling up the hashtag, favouriting and retweeting in support from their individual accounts.

“Can I –” Hells says suddenly, then breaks off, blushing. He looks at Kent, clearly nervous, and says, “Would it, um. If I said, if I tweeted what I am, would that be okay? I mean I looked it up and everything, but I’m still not sure if it counts as, like, a queer thing? Like, some people say it does and some people say it doesn’t, but I thought it could still be, like, solidarity, you know, and I – I figure it would make dating stuff easier for me, if other people knew.”

“Hells,” says Kent, overwhelmed. “You don’t need my permission for that. You – if you wanna do it, do it.”

“I want to,” says Hells, just as Swoops says, “Wait, what?”

Hells waves him off with a hand, tongue sticking out as he carefully types his own tweet, and Kent’s pulse beats in triple-time as it shows up a moment later in his livefeed of the hashtag:

 _@KeiranHellier: FWIW demisexual players exist too! Only just learned there's a word for being like me, much happier now I know Im not alone_ _J_ _#wecanplay_

Kent retweets it immediately, and there’s a brief pause as the rest of the team catch up. Hells looks briefly nervous, right up until Swoops makes a delighted noise, yells “ROOKIE SUPPORT DOGPILE!” and crash-tackles Hells with a hug. The two of them fall to the floor, their laughter turning to strangled yelps as Yaks and Petty fling themselves into the fray, the four of them rolling around on the carpet, wrestling and flailing. Kent groans at the sight; Javvy is doubled over with silent laughter, while Racker, grinning hugely, starts taking photos of them all.

Meditatively, Zora says, “You know, I could get used to this.”

“They grow on you,” Day says. “Like a really loud, clumsy fungus.”

“Yes!” says Yaks, sticking his head up from the fray. “I am _best_ hockey mushroom!”

Kent laughs so hard, he falls off the couch.

 

 

*

 

Eventually, some semblance of order returns to the gathering, which is when, by mutual, silent consensus, everyone starts to pack up. Javvy is the first to go, citing the need to get back to his family; he hugs Kent warmly on the way out, shakes Day’s hand, and leaves with the lion’s share of adult dignity. Racker and Zora follow soon after, very clearly looking to continue their fledgling association in a more private context: Racker hugs them both enthusiastically, while Zora hugs Day in a python-squeeze, murmurs something in rapid Spanish for his ears alone, and then pats Kent kindly on the cheek.

“I’m not going to give you the extended shovel talk,” she says, cheerfully. “Because, one, you’ve clearly had a hell of a week, and two, you already know that I know how to get in here.” She leans up on tiptoe and kisses the cheek she didn’t pat. “Thanks for having me! Your cat is very cute.”

Racker holds the door for her as she saunters out, flashing Kent a look that’s as close to a swoon as he’s ever seen on a grown man’s face. Day makes a strangled sound that is, quite possibly, laughter.

Yaks watches them leave with a hangdog expression, then puts a hand on Day’s shoulder and says, with utter sincerity, “Your sister is queen among women. He ever hurt her, I break his face.”

“Um,” says Day, who clearly doesn’t know what to do with the offer. He looks to Kent for help, but Kent is too busy biting his lip to intervene. “Thanks?”

“Is pleasure,” says Yaks, just a shade more darkly than usual. “I go ahead now, chase off any vultures.” And then, to Kent, almost as an afterthought, “Maybe I break Danno’s face, for practice.”

“You do what feels right,” says Kent, who’s way past pretending he’s above that sort of petty vengeance, and is rewarded by a tackle-hug to the back from Petty, who clings on like a koala and says, mock-outraged, “You won’t let me burn Danno’s eyesore of a Ferrari, but Yasha can punch him? Such favouritism!”

“There’s a vast gulf of criminal misconduct between minor assault and arson, Petty,” Kent huffs, forcibly disentangling himself. “Pranks good, crimes bad. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

Petty grins evilly. “Practice makes perfect, captain.”

As the two Russians exit, Kent looks despairingly at Day. “Why do I feel like I just became an accessory to something?”

Day grins. “Don’t worry, _cariño_. I’ll tell the police that you saw and heard nothing, even if they question us separately.”

Swoops and Hells are the last to leave, partly because Swoops can’t find his socks – Kit is sitting on them, though Swoops is yet to notice – but mostly because Hells insists on tidying up, putting the leftovers in Kent’s fridge and sorting the mess of empty bottles, pizza boxes and food cartons into a pair of rubbish bags.

“Are you sure you’re a hockey player?” Kent asks him, gathering up the used glasses.

Hells cocks a thumb at Swoops, who’s trying and failing to tug a sock out from under Kit without incurring her claws. “Have you seen his house? Unless I clean up, the living room looks like the day after Coachella.”

“Hey!” says Swoops. “I protest, on the grounds th– _RELEASE MY SOCK, YOU GOBLIN!_ ” This last to Kit, whose claws have now snagged on the item in question, forcing them into a tug-of-war over possession.

“Why,” says Kent plaintively, as Hells and Day both snicker. Heaving a sigh, he gently lifts Kit up, removes the offending sock from her paw, and hands the pair over to Swoops. “You’re a human disaster, you know that? Don’t yell at my fucking cat.”

“She started it,” Swoops mutters, hopping as he puts his socks on.

“I called us an Uber,” Hells says helpfully, a bag of trash in each hand. “You wanna stop by that ice cream place on the way home?”

“Don’t patronise me!”

“We can get pistachio.”

“… Fine.”

Kent sees them both to the door, hugging Hells a little bit longer than he otherwise might.

“Let me know if you get any shit about this, okay?” he murmurs.

“Sure, cap,” says Hells, and with that, he herds Swoops out of the condo, nudging him in the back with the garbage bags.

“In case I forget that just happened,” Kent says, “remind me to chirp the fuck out of Swoops for needing a rookie to take care of him, and also for losing a fight with my cat.”

“So noted,” Day says, grinning.

They clean up the rest of the mess in companionable silence, though thanks to Hells, there isn’t that much to do besides stacking the dishwasher and refilling Kit’s bowl, even though she’s already eaten her share of begged-and-pilfered people food. From time to time, Kent glances at his phone, half yearning to know what’s going down on Twitter and half afraid to look. He knows the trolls and the homophobes will show up at some point, as they always do, and while he’s usually able to react with either silence or calmly calculated snark, right now, he doesn’t have the emotional distance necessary to manage it. Knowing his luck, he’ll probably end up picking a fight with some teenage redpiller from the ass-end of Reddit and wind up feeling like shit about the future of humanity.

He wonders how many such people are cheering for Danno.

The enormity of the past 24 hours crashes into him like a tidal wave. Kent came out, _Jack_ came out, and Danno told the internet he’d rather Kent was dead. The thought snares in his guts like a lump of barbed wire, ugly and cold. He grips the edge of the kitchen island, staring blankly at the door, and says, in that strange, flat voice that only ever comes out at these moments, “I don’t understand why it hurts so much, knowing he wants to kill me. It’s not like I’ve never wanted to kill myself.”

There’s a startling crash as Day drops a plate. Kent flinches, but otherwise stays where he is, shuddering as Day hurries over and pulls him into his arms.

“Whatever you’re feeling right now, it’s okay,” Day murmurs, holding him close. “Whatever you need, _cariño._ I’m here.”

“A shower?” Kent rasps. “A shower and bed? I just.” He swallows hard, clinging on to Day. “I think I just want to be close to you, right now.”

“I want that, too,” says Day, and leads him into the bathroom.

 

*

 

Kent doesn’t cry in the shower, though he wants to. He clings to Day and kisses him desperately – his mouth, his collarbone, anywhere he can reach, shivering when Day kisses back – but stifles the rising need to break down completely, because Day has already put up with enough of his crap, and everything with the team was so amazingly good, can he please just manage a single normal evening to go with it? They dry each other off, brush their teeth, and climb naked into the warmth of Kent’s bed together. Kent pillows his head on Day’s chest, a leg flung over Day’s thigh, and listens with his eyes half-closed as Day tells him stories about Zora’s various escapades, his fingers carding gently through Kent’s hair. The ache in Kent’s chest doesn’t fully abate, but it settles enough that, eventually, he falls asleep despite it.

The nightmare comes with slow inevitability, a building sense of dread and wrongness rising through the static of early sleep. Kent is alone in his rookie-year room at Katzy’s place, but when the door opens, it isn’t Katzy who’s there, but Gary.

“No,” says Kent, body flooding with terror. “No, I l _eft_ , you shouldn’t be here, I’m too old for you now –”

“You never left,” says Gary. “You’re never too old for me,” and then the dream shudders through awful fast-forward, twisting them onto the bed together with Kent below and Gary above, grunting rebukes as Kent tries and fails to buck him off, the way he never did.

“Stop!” Kent cries, tongue sleep-thick as he shapes the word. “Stop, stop, _stop_ –”

He shuts his dream-eyes, trying to will himself free, but when he opens them again, the only thing that’s changed is their location. They’re in the Aces’s rink now, and every thrust jars a gout of blood from Kent’s throat onto the pristine ice. He looks up to see Danno standing over him, holding his reddened skate.

“I should kill you for this,” says Danno, and though it’s all his body and face, the voice Kent hears is Jack’s. “You freakish little _bitch_.”

Kent screams himself awake, crying and shaking. For an awful moment, he’s utterly disoriented, thrashing as he tries to get free of the weight of blankets, arm jerking violently through the air as he flails for his bedside light. He can barely breathe, the air punched out of him in jagged, awful bursts.

“Kent? Kent, _cariño_ , it was a dream, I’m here, you’re here, you’re safe with me –”

Kent flings himself at Day and sobs into his chest, arms tight around his neck. Day pulls him in, hands smoothing over every inch of Kent, putting him back in his body, all the while murmuring _shh, shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you_. Moments later, Kit Purrson invites herself onto the bed, leaping up with a proprietary _mrrp_ and walking up onto Kent’s hip. The angle is odd, but she anchors her claws in the duvet and makes a stabilising loaf, purring loudly at both of them.

“Hey, princess,” Kent chokes out, just as Day says, “There’s your girl, huh? There she is. We’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re home.”

“I’m home,” Kent echoes, and draws a shuddering breath, tears tacky on his cheeks. “Oh god, fuck, that was a bad one.” He makes a hiccupping sound. “I should’ve – should’ve warned you it might – that I might – oh, god, I need _help_ , I really do need help, don’t I?” And then, before Day can answer that, “I’ll go to the team psychologist tomorrow, first thing. Get a recommendation. There’s worse places to start, right?”

Day kisses his hair. “Do you want me to come with you? Not into the meeting, I mean, but – moral support? I can buy you lunch, after.”

“I would like that,” Kent says, softly. The terror has faded, leaving behind a washed-out sense of exhaustion. Voice small, he says, “Sorry you had to see that.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, _cariño_. Not for this.”

“I am, though.”

“I’m not,” says Day. “Not sorry to be woken, and not sorry that I’m here.”

Kent makes a scraped noise, shifting so that they’re holding each other at a slightly better angle. Kit rides out the motion like a ship at sea, glaring imperiously at the pair of them. Day reaches out to scratch her ears, and she deigns to lick his fingertips in acceptance.

It’s a small moment in the scheme of things, but something about the structure of it sinks into Kent, as indelible as a tattoo. He breathes in and out in time with Day, trying to find the words to say what he thinks he might be feeling in a way that won’t make it stop.

Eventually, softly, Kent says, “I don’t like being bad at things. Not that most people do, but I… usually if I feel like I’m bad at something, _really_ bad, I avoid it. The idea that I could try my best and still fail, that I might not ever be good enough, that’s terrifying to me. But it means I’m scared of so much, all the time, because I feel like I’m bad at being a person, too, and if I slip up even a little, then people will _know_ how bad I am, and I’ll have to – to stop.” He holds a little tighter to Day, who holds tighter to him in turn, and after a steadying moment, Kent figures out how to talk again.

“But you don’t make me feel like that. You… you make me feel like it’s okay to keep trying, even when I’m bad. Like I can be good at stuff I couldn’t ever be good at before, because I was scared. Like maybe _I’m_ good, after all. And that means so much to me, I – I don’t know how to say it, otherwise.” He lifts his head and runs a hand across Day’s cheek, heart aching when Day, wide-eyed and beautiful, leans into the touch. “Can I kiss you? Is that okay?”

“Please,” Day whispers, and so Kent does, so gently that it feels less like breaking and more, however impossibly, like putting himself together. He leans up and over Day, the kiss deepening by slow and steady increments. Kit hangs on for as long as she can, then relocates to the foot of the bed, tail flicking in disdain. Kent laughs softly into Day’s mouth, sprawled as warmly over him as he was that morning, and sucks gently on his bottom lip. Day shudders in response, but never does more than kiss back, thumbs brushing lightly across Kent’s hips.

They stay like that for a long time, until Kent’s mouth is as pleasantly sore as it’s ever been and Day is panting beneath him. They’re both hard and tired, and when Kent finally rolls aside with a final, lingering kiss to Day’s shoulder, Day only gives a sleepy, pleased sigh and spoons up behind him, happy to wait until morning.

Kent doesn’t dream again.


	11. Healing

Before now, Kent has known the psychologist’s office at the Aces’ Complex only as a room to avoid. He’s had to speak to Mary once or twice before, of course, but he’s always made it difficult for her – not overtly so, in the sense of being rude or hostile, but by using the many duties of captaincy as an excuse to meet only briefly and in places of his choosing. Now, however, he stands before her door a little after 9am and forces himself to knock.

“It’s open!” she calls from the other side. 

The room is small and comfortably furnished, a high window letting in the light through slit blinds. There’s a pair of comfortable armchairs and a side table up against one wall and a desk along the other. Mary is seated behind it, blinking as Kent awkwardly shuts the door. She’s a short, energetic woman in her mid-forties with grey-streaked red hair, an abundance of freckles and pale blue eyes.

“Kent!” she exclaims, her tone one of pleasant surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you in just yet, but I’m always free to talk.” She rises, gesturing at the armchairs as she moves. “Would you like to take a seat?”

It takes Kent a startled moment to realise that of course Mary was expecting him at some point – after an injury like his, it’s standard procedure to check in with the psychologist before going back on the ice.

“Um,” he says, abruptly wrongfooted. “I, uh – that’s actually not why I’m here?” It comes out sounding like a question; he winces, forcing himself to plough ahead. “I came to ask if you could recommend me a therapist. A different therapist, I mean.”

Now it’s Mary’s turn to look flummoxed. A slight blush rises in her cheeks. “Kent, I know you’ve never been particularly keen to engage my services, but if you have an issue with me personally, then –”

“No!” Kent yelps, horrified. “No, that’s not – I don’t – it’s not about _you_ , I just – there’s something else –”

“Maybe we should sit,” says Mary, and Kent doesn’t want to get trapped in here, but he takes the out anyway, shoulders hunched as he lowers himself into the nearest armchair. Mary sits more slowly, watching him now with calm professionalism. When Kent doesn’t immediately speak, she gives him an encouraging smile and pours him a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. Kent takes it wordlessly, gulping the contents. When he sets the glass back down, his hand only shakes a little.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I have a, an issue that I need to talk to someone about, unrelated to hockey, and I know you’re really good at your job, but I don’t think it’s in your wheelhouse, so I wanted to ask for a recommendation. Please.”

 “I’d be happy to give you a few names, if you really feel it’s necessary,” Mary says, carefully, “but I’m here to help with more than just hockey worries. Your overall mental and emotional wellbeing is important, not just to how you play, but to who you are, and after what happened yesterday, I can understand –”

“This isn’t about my sexuality,” says Kent, cutting her off. His pulse ticks up like a metronome. “Or, well, it sort of is, but not because of Jack or Danno, not in the way you’re thinking.”

“Try me,” Mary says, and it’s – Kent can see, can hear in her voice that she means it to be casual, the sort of friendly camaraderie designed to appeal to competitive hockey players who don’t like to open up about their problems, but that’s exactly why it sets his teeth on edge. It’s not what he needs and it’s not what he wants, and his voice comes out sharp and ugly when he answers.

“I was raped as a kid,” Kent snaps. “For _years_. It fucked me up, and I’ve gone a long damn time pretending it didn’t, but I’m trying to get my goddamn _shit_ together, so yeah, I would like to talk to someone who actually specialises in that sort of thing. Or should I go into more detail?”

He slumps back, tense and aching, and wishes there was some vindication to be had in the way Mary blanches. Instead, he just feels tired.

“I owe you an apology,” Mary says, after a moment. “I made an assumption about why you were here instead of waiting for you to tell me, and I’m very sorry for that. You’re quite right to have said that’s not my wheelhouse, but I can certainly give you some names to start with.” She hesitates, then says, a little soft and awkward, “I’ll understand if you’d rather not answer, but… would I be right in thinking you’re addressing this now because of yesterday’s events?”

“A little,” says Kent. He forces himself to meet her gaze. Even now, a part of him doesn’t want to talk, but if Mary’s going to refer him to someone who can actually help, she needs to know where he’s coming from – and besides, now that he’s out, it’s inevitable that he’s going to have to deal with backlash on and off the ice, which makes his triggers tangentially her business. He can see that she sees it, too, her expression once more professional, and so he takes a breath and dredges up the truth.

“I’ve… like I said, I’ve been messed up for a long time. I’ve hurt myself because of it. Not – not, like, cutting or anything, except maybe once –” he flashes back to that day in the locker room, the skate biting into his thigh, “– but just, uh. Making bad choices. With myself, with people. With, uh. With sex. I tried to deal with it myself, because I was scared and ashamed, and I… I honestly didn’t know what would happen if I came out, if I tried to get help. I knew I wasn’t doing great, but I figured I was surviving, you know? So long as I could still play good hockey, I told myself it didn’t matter. But when we played the Panthers, when I knew what had happened –” he raises a hand to his throat, fingers brushing the scar, “– there was a moment where I hoped I’d die, because it would make things easier. I’d never have to come out, never have to get better.”

He smiles, flat and humourless. “I realised I was more frightened of myself than of bleeding out. But even then, even knowing that, I don’t think I’d be here right now if not for Day. Damian Navarro,” he adds, and sees her eyes widen as she recognises the name. “My, uh. My boyfriend.” He doesn’t mean to smile, but he can’t quite help it, fondness creeping in around the grief. “He was the first person I ever told about any of this, about what happened to me. And I don’t… god, I have no experience with, with dating or whatever, but I know enough to know how important he is to me. And I know it’s new, what I have with him, but I can’t just dump all my baggage on this awesome guy and ask him to carry it for me just because I never learned how to do it myself, you know? And I’m, even if – if it doesn’t work out, or he gets sick of me – and god, I wouldn’t blame him if he did –” his throat tightens awfully at the thought, “– even if that happens, I still need to do this for me. I need help. I’ve needed help for a long fucking time, and whatever you think I need to do to play good hockey, I’ll take that on board, but frankly, that’s never been my problem. This –” he waves a hand, indicating the building, the rink, the whole Aces institution, “– _this_ , I know how to do. It’s everything else I’m bad at.”

Mary bites her lip. “Can I be unprofessional for a moment? Or, well. Potentially unprofessional. Personal. I’m not quite sure where that line is right now, but I want to be as honest with you as you’ve just been with me.”

“Sure,” says Kent, surprised.

“When you first signed, I was planning to keep an eye on you. We all knew about Jack Zimmerman’s overdose, but –” She stops, a flash of belated understanding on her face. “You were dating then, at Rimouski?”

“Yeah, we were. I was the one who found him.”

Mary looks very much like she wants to swear. It’s oddly endearing, even though she doesn’t. “Nobody knew you were together?”

“His parents, I think. But nobody I could talk to.”

“Christ.” She runs a hand down her face, her expression a mix of ruefulness and something Kent can’t place. “It was bad enough when we thought he was just your friend, but to have that happen to a partner… and then we just flew you here, put you in the spotlight, sent you to live with Ari Katzenbach –”

She stops again, stumbling to a visible halt. If they’d had this conversation a day ago, Kent might have wondered why, but after last night’s horror dream, he knows exactly what’s occurred to her.

“It was a man,” he says, sparing her the question. “Who abused me.” He stares at the floor, shoving down the aftertaste of the nightmare. “Katzy was always good to me, though. I don’t, uh. Consciously, I don’t think I was ever afraid of him.” He considers explaining that, when he first moved into Katzy’s place, he hadn’t realised how wrong Gary was – that, if Katzy had propositioned him then, he would’ve thought it was normal – but decides that’s more than Mary needs to know. “He knew something was up with me, though. I never told him what it was, but he still tried to help.”

Mary lets out a breath. “Even so, the fact that we put you in that position… I’m sorry we didn’t know enough to know you needed help. We know that new players often need guidance to settle in, but the emphasis is on making sure they feel comfortable enough to play, not assessing their psychological health otherwise, and that’s… well. The plain fact is – and you don’t need me to tell you this – that most fields meant to support professional athletes, and particularly male athletes, are woefully ill-prepared to deal with or identify problems relating to homophobia, sexual abuse or any related issues. We sign on kids who are eighteen, nineteen, often highly undersocialised in any non-hockey contexts, who’ve either never been away from their families or who’ve been billeted with strangers through their formative years, and we don’t consider how vulnerable that makes them, how isolated in certain ways.”

She makes a face. “Physical abuse, that’s a slightly different story – you know how many rookies I’ve seen or heard about who break down thinking their coach is going to hurt them, because that’s what they’re used to at home? But even then, we don’t do nearly enough to deal with the long-term baggage that goes with that sort of experience, because our emphasis is on getting them fit to play, not fit to live. And then, suddenly, they might be twenty-eight or thirty-two and out of the league, whether because their contract’s run out or they’re too hurt to play anymore, and that makes them not our problem – on paper, at least. And that bothers me. It’s bothered me for years. And then, yesterday, I saw what happened with Austin Daniels – I saw you come out, and Jack Zimmermann come out, and I thought, oh, look! Here’s another area where we need to be doing better. So I had a plan, for whenever you came to see me, that I’d ask you to give me some pointers. Just… an idea, in your experience, of what it’s like to be closeted, so I’d have a better notion of what to do and look for in the future.”

She laughs, short and self-deprecating. “And then you came in and I jumped the gun something spectacular, because the fact is that I’m straight as a spirit level, and whatever sexism I’ve experienced in my life and my line of work, I’ve never had to deal with being abused. The problem isn’t that I don’t want to do better by my players, because I do; it’s that I don’t know enough about where they’re coming from to know what things to look for, what advice to give. But here you are, you’re the first out player I’ve dealt with, and I’m messing up by making my ignorance your problem, again, when that’s really a major part of what you’ve been dealing with all along. So. Anyway. I’m sorry, and I can definitely give you some recommendations for therapy. And if you ever… if there’s ever a way in which your personal history intersects with how you’re treated on the ice, or by anyone in this organisation, I hope you’ll feel able to tell me about it.”

“Thank you,” says Kent, voice unaccountably rough. He wants to say more, but can’t seem to manage it. Mercifully, Mary seems to understand: she rises and heads to her desk, pen tapping thoughtfully against her lips before she scribbles a series of names on a post-it and hands it over.

“These three are your best starting point, I think,” she says. “You can look them all up and make your own decision about who to approach first, and once you’ve done that, I’d be happy to give you a proper referral. Or, conversely, if none of them seems right, I can find you some other names.” She hesitates, then says, “Unofficially, I think Nadia Santos might be your best bet. Kallmann and Schnider are both excellent, but neither of them has much experience working with athletes, whereas Santos does – but then, you might want someone with a little distance. Like I said, it’s your call.”

“I’ll look into it,” Kent promises, tucking the post-it into his pocket.

“As for the other matter,” says Mary, gesturing at his scar, “I’d normally want to sit you down and do a full assessment. But under the circumstances, as you’re clearly using your injury as a catalyst for positive change, I’m inclined to clear you to play as soon as medical gives the okay – provided, of course, that you come straight to me if you experience any non-physical difficulties. I know that you want to push forwards, and that’s a good thing, but… well. Just talk to me if you need to, all right?”

“I will,” says Kent. He feels tender still, yet buoyed all the same. “Thanks, Mary.”

She sees him out with a smile. The whole experience leaves Kent feeling so flummoxed that he’s not really paying attention to his surroundings. Preoccupied, he rounds a corner and yelps as he collides with another body, the strength of the impact sending them both reeling.

“Sorry,” Kent gasps, slightly winded. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking –”

He lifts his head and freezes.

“Parser,” says Mads, staring at him like he’s an apparition. “Shit, I didn’t – I’m sorry, I –” He breaks off, running a calloused hand through his hair, face twisted in an unfamiliar mix of fear and grief. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Kent forces himself to breathe. “It’s not your fault,” he says, a beat too late to be plausible. “You deleted Danno’s tweets, you didn’t write them –”

“Bullshit,” Mads snaps. And then, more quietly, hangdog, “Not tweeting it doesn’t mean it’s not my fault. He and I, we’ve been close for years, and I always… he’s always said shit like that, made jokes about fags – uh, shit –” he winces, and only by the grace of a tightly-clenched fist does Kent keep from starting something, “– just, you know, homophobic stuff. And I always joined in, because I figured it was just jokes, you know?” His gaze is half shame, half pleading. “Like locker-room shit, like how you’d just… I don’t know. Like chirping. Like it wasn’t real. I always… I just assumed, I guess, that we both meant it the same way. Like, I knew I didn’t really hate gay dudes, so I thought that meant he didn’t, either, which made it okay to kinda act like we did, the same way we all pretend that shit cologne Swoops wears when he’s wheeling is sarin gas.”

Kent’s lips twitch of their own accord at that: mocking Swoops’s attempts to get laid is practically an Aces post-game ritual all by itself. He sees an answering spark of hope in Mads’s expression, and watches, oddly mesmerised, as it fades out again.

“But then he started in on you. Really started in, I mean, and I won’t pretend I wasn’t shocked as hell when you came out to us, but Danno just kept getting more and more worked up. And I thought, okay, maybe he just needs to blow off steam, get all the shit out of his system, so I took him out –”

He falls silent at last, and the silence stretches, thick and dark as taffy.

Finally, after what feels like a geological era, Kent swallows and speaks.

“You joked about me, once, back when we were rookies. It was when I got Kit. I was terrified. I pushed a skate blade into my thigh to keep from blowing up.”

Mads turns sickly pale. “I remember that. Jesus, Parse. I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know.”

“Nobody did,” says Kent, fists clenched again. “Which is the goddamn _point_ , Mads. Of _course_ you thought Danno was joking when he said that shit; you knew it didn’t apply to you, so you never had to worry what would happen if you were wrong. But me, other players like me – we all assume, we _have_ to assume, that guys like you and him _always_ mean it. If you knew, if you had any fucking _idea_ how much shit I’ve gone through… thinking I’d lose the C and my job and my team if anyone found out, that’s the fucking least of it, but you couldn’t rub two fucking braincells together for long enough to think that maybe, just _maybe_ , not everyone in the room is straight?”

A flash of anger crosses Mads’s face, but what he croaks out is, “I’m sorry. I’m just sorry, cap. And you don’t… I know you don’t have to accept that from me, or like it or whatever, but I had to say it, you know? Because I’m pissed at myself, and I’m still, like, a part of me still can’t fucking believe that Danno really meant it all, which I know is fucking stupid, but he’s my _friend,_ you know? Or he was, at least. I thought he was.” He falters to a sudden stop, looking abruptly smaller than such a huge man ever should, and adds, voice whisper-rough, “I don’t know what to do, now.”

Kent’s gut twists like a ball of snakes. Swallowing hard, he puts a hand on Mads’s arm and squeezes, once. “Go talk to Mary,” he says, his own voice oddly strained. “We’ve all got shit to work through, Mads, and I’m… whatever else has happened, you’re still an Ace. You’re still a good fucking player.”

Mads jerks his head up and stares at Kent like he’s never seen him before. His mouth moves, but no words come out – and then, with sudden, jerky awkwardness, he grapples Kent into a hug. The contact only lasts a moment, but it leaves Kent stunned. He stares into space for several long seconds, his breathing uneven, and when he finally turns again, he sees Mads knocking on Mary’s door.

Kent flees before she can answer it, his stride just short of a run. He finds his way through the Aces complex on autopilot, unsure of his feelings beyond their raw intensity and the conviction that there’s only one person on Earth he wants to share them with.

He finds Day just where he promised he’d be, in one of the waiting areas. He’s seated, clearly at ease as he wraps up a phonecall, an expression of pleasant surprise on his face. At the sound of Kent’s rapid approach, however, he looks up and instantly comes to his feet. His lips part on a question that dies as Kent, with as little dignity as Kit in a feed-me-I’m-starving mood, flings his arms around Day and presses his face to his shirtfront.

“It was good,” Kent says, the words slightly muffled. “Take me home?”

Day chuckles and hugs him back, his fingertips stroking lightly through Kent’s hair. “Of course, _cariño_.”

They leave the centre together, Day’s arm snug around Kent’s waist.

“You looked happy, before,” Kent says, as they enter the carpark. “Did something good happen?”

“Potentially, yes,” says Day, taking a careful breath. “Jack rang me a little while ago – apparently, his agent and the Falcs have both asked him to do a coming-out piece, and he wanted to do know if I’d do the honours, and whether I thought you’d be interested in making it a joint thing, both of you talking together. I said I’d ask; my editor is completely on board, but if you’d rather not, I can –”

“Yes.”

Day stops walking, looking at Kent with a mix of concern and hope. “You really want to?”  

“I do. I really do.” Kent fists his hands in the front of Day’s shirt and looks up at him, struggling to articulate how right the idea feels. “Me and Jack, what happened in the Q… we never got to talk about it. Not to anyone else, and certainly not to each other. Not until you. And now we’re both out, and we’ve both got partners, and I never, I never thought we’d get to have anything like this, let alone be friends again, and it’s all because of you. So talking to you, with Jack – the three of us, everything together – it just feels… cathartic, I guess. It feels right.”

Day’s answering smile is incandescent. Kent leans up and kisses him, slow and perfect. There’s a clicking noise in the background – some paparazzo, probably, or else an overzealous fan – and for the first time in his life, Kent truly doesn’t care. He’s whole and scarred and out and free, and not a photo in the world can touch that or take it from him. Not anymore.

 

*

 

They drive home together, hands brushing over the gearstick. Inside, they take off their shoes together, feed Kit together, and after they’re done cooing over her, Kent pulls Day into the shower with him, kissing his neck, mouth, shoulders. Later, he’ll tell him about what happened with Mary and Mads, but there’s an urgency in him now, some deep emotional circuit sparking with the need to close, and the only words he has are _yes_ and _please_.

Still dripping, one towel looped around them both, Kent walks Day backwards into the dimly-lit bedroom and steers him to sit upright against the headboard, cupping his face as he kisses him. Day trembles at the contact, panting as Kent nips his lip and straddles his waist.

“Please,” Kent breathes. “Please, can I –”

“Yes,” says Day, hands stroking electric across Kent’s hips. “Whatever you want.”

Reaching over, Kent fishes the lube and condom from the bedside table, pressing them into Day’s hand.

“In me,” he whispers. “Day, please –”

Day kisses him fiercely, lighting him up. Kent grips Day’s shoulders, forehead bowed to his collarbone as he arches forward, panting as Day grips his thigh with one strong hand, the other opening him up with deft, slickgentle fingers. Kent shakes and shakes, and bites his needy pleasure into Day’s hot skin, near sobbing at the slowness of it, a juddering stretch that no sooner burns than soothes.

A small eternity later, Day pulls his fingers out and pushes into him. Kent makes a wounded noise and grips Day’s biceps, staring into those wide, soft eyes. They breathe together as Kent sinks down – slow, slow. Day holds him gently at thigh and waist, and when Kent finally rolls his hips, they groan in unison.

Gently, Day leans forward to kiss him, lips grazing into a gasp as Kent begins to move.

“I’ve never,” Kent starts, swallowing the words. He rests their foreheads together, trembling with pleasure and want and something so huge it can only be love, or maybe hope, or some other impossible thing.

Day mouths at his pulse-point, sucking gently. “Never what?”

“I’ve never done this sober.”

“This?”

“Sex.” Kent makes a noise that’s almost laughter, twining their fingers together. “Not even with Jack.” He grinds down, filthy and tender. “You’re my first.” _My only,_ he thinks. _My always. God, please let it be you._

“ _Cariño_.” Day pushes up into him, free hand sliding into Kent’s hair. Their mouths slot together and part again, the two of them moving in a push-pull drag that has them both sweating, everything too slow and yet not slow enough until, with the suddenness of a rubber band snapping, slow becomes fast becomes frenzied. Kent rides Day ragged, moaning as he finally comes with Day’s hand on his cock, Day thrusting up as he follows after. They both tip sideways, salt-sheened and shivering, Kent tossing the condom into the bin as Day cleans them up with the towel.

Afterwards, they pour themselves under the blankets, curled together in satiated warmth.

Day kisses Kent’s forehead. “Was that good for you?”

Kent smiles at him, looping a tendril of damp hair behind Day’s ear. “Best first time ever.”

Day grins, fond and beautiful, and tugs Kent closer, tangling their legs. From the doorway, there’s a gentle _thump_ as Kit headbutts the unlatched door open, followed within moments by her pouncing onto the foot of the bed. She blinks at them both, as if assessing the situation, then gives a pointed, feline yawn and folds up into a loaf.

“Why do I feel like your cat is judging us?” Day murmurs, tucking the blanket a little more snugly around their shoulders.

“Are you saying you don’t want a nap?”

“I never said that.”

“Shh. Afterglow.”

They fall asleep to the sound of Kit purring.

Kent dreams of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished! Thank you so much for reading, and for your patience - I was sick for most of last month, hence the delay, and I wanted to make sure I got the final chapter right :)

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from Scar Tissue by Red Hot Chilli Peppers, i.e. the most Kent Parson song in existence. The fact that it's a song that Kent himself would probably hate only adds to the irony of its applicability.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Scar Tissue (That I Wish You Saw)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10982595) by [read by Khashana (Khashana)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khashana/pseuds/read%20by%20Khashana), [sysrae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae)




End file.
